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Division  JD  S  f  0  7 


Section 


3.T7 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2019  with  funding  from 
Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


https://archive.org/details/iandthatisdesolaOOtrev_0 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


[All  rights  reserved] 


THE  DOME  OF  THE  ROCK 


Frontispiece 


THE  LAND 

THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


AN  ACCOUNT  OF 
A  TOUR  IN  PALESTINE 


BY  SIR  FREDERICK  TREVES  Bart. 

G.G.V.O.,  G.B.,  LL.D. 

SERJEANT-SURGEON  TO  H.M.  THE  KING 
SURGEON  IN  ORDINARY  TO  H.M.  QUEEN  ALEXANDRA 

AUTHOR  OF 

‘the  OTHER  SIDE  OF  THE  LANTERN’  ‘  THE  CRADLE  OF  THE  DEEP  ’  ETC. 


WITH  FORTY-THREE  ILLUSTRATIONS 
FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS  BY  THE  AUTHOR 

AND  A  MAP 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  AND  COMPANY 


First  Edition  (Smith,  Elder  &  Co.)..  November,  1912 

Third  Impression  .  September,  1913 

Reprinted  (John  Murray)  .  September,  1928 


Printed  in  Great  Britain  at  The  Baixantyne  Press 
Spottiswoode,  Ballantyne  &  Co.  Ltd. 
Colchester,  London  &  Eton 


CONTENTS 


rAGR 


I. 

The  Landing  at  Jaffa 

« 

• 

• 

• 

I 

II. 

The  Way  to  Jerusalem 

• 

• 

20 

III. 

The  First  View  of  the  Holy  City 

• 

• 

38 

IV. 

The  City  of  Sorrows  .  i 

42 

V. 

Within  the  Walls 

47 

VI. 

The  Cult  of  the  Beggar  . 

57 

VII. 

The  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre 

66 

VIII. 

The  Thief’s  Chapel  and  Calvary 

81 

IX. 

The  Roof  of  the  Church  . 

• 

85 

X. 

The  Summit  of  Mount  Moriah  . 

90 

XI. 

Olivet  and  the  Garden 

102 

XII. 

Tombs  and  Pools 

108 

XIII. 

The  Moaning  by  the  Wall 

113 

XIV. 

Bethlehem  .... 

117 

XV. 

The  Country  of  Ruth 

127 

XVI. 

The  Plain  of  Jericho 

130 

XVII. 

The  Jordan  and  the  Dead  Sea  . 

146 

XVIII. 

Round  about  Haifa  . 

155 

XIX. 

./\.CRE  .....  3 

¥ 

167 

XX. 

The  Road  to  Nazareth 

• 

• 

# 

• 

172 

XXI. 

Nazareth  ..... 

• 

• 

• 

• 

179 

VI 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

XXII.  From  Nazareth  to  the  Sea  of  Galilee  .  .  .  187 

XXIII.  The  Sea  of  Galilee . 192 

XXIV.  The  Ascent  to  Damascus . 198 

XXV.  The  City  from  the  Hill . 208 

XXVI.  Naaman’s  River . 216 

XXVII.  The  Streets  of  the  ‘Arabian  Nights’  City  .  .221 

XXVIII.  The  Bazaars . 231 

XXIX.  The  Crowd . 243 

XXX.  Attar  of  Roses  .  ....  .  .  256 

XXXI.  The  Great  Mosque  .  260 

XXXII.  A  Tragic  Journey . 267 

Index  . . 285 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


The  Dome  of  the  Rock  ..... 

Port  Said  ....... 

Jaffa  :  from  Roof  of  House  of  Simon  the 
Tanner  ....... 

Jaffa  :  from  Garden  of  the  Monastery  of  the 
House  of  Tabitha  ..... 

The  Train  from  Jaffa  to  Jerusalem 

The  First  View  of  Jerusalem 

The  Golden  Gate,  Jerusalem  :  from  the  inside 

A  Street  in  Jerusalem  ..... 

A  Street  in  Jerusalem  ..... 

A  Street  in  Jerusalem  ..... 

Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre 
Jerusalem  :  View  from  Roof  of  Church  of 
THE  Holy  Sepulchre  .... 

Houses  in  the  Temple  Area,  Jerusalem  . 

The  Dome  of  the  Rock  ..... 

Mount  of  Olives  ...... 

Mount  of  Olives  ...... 

Corner  of  the  Garden  of  Gethsemane  . 
Walls  of  Jerusalem  near  the  Jaffa  Gate, 
showing  the  Ditch  ..... 

Jerusalem  :  from  the  Mount  of  Olives,  showing 
THE  Golden  Gate  and  Dome  of  the  Rock 
View  from  Inside  the  Walls  of  Jerusalem, 

SHOWING  THE  DOME  OF  THE  RoCK  . 

•  The  Tombs  of  the  Kings,  Jerusalem 
Bethlehem  :  the  Church  of  the  Nativity 


Frontispiece 
To  face  page  2 


12 


yy 

yy 

y  y 

16 

yy 

y  y 

yy 

22 

y  y 

y  y 

y  y 

40 

yy 

yy 

y  y 

50 

yy 

yy 

yy 

50 

yy 

yy 

yy 

54 

yy 

yy 

yy 

60 

yy 

yy 

yy 

72 

yy 

y  y 

y  y 

86 

yy 

yy 

yy 

94 

yy 

yy 

y  y 

98 

yy 

yy 

yy 

100 

yy 

yy 

y  y 

102 

yy 

yy 

yy 

106 

yy 

yy 

yy 

106 

yy 

yy 

yy 

108 

M  yy 


yy 

yy 


no 

II2 


yy  yy  yy 


120 


Vlll 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Bethany  ..... 

To  face  page 

130 

The  Road  to  Jericho 

•  • 

}} 

99 

9  9 

134 

Doubting  Castle,  on  the  Road  to 

Jericho 

9t 

9  9 

99 

134 

The  Valley  of  Achor,  on  the  Way  to  Jericho, 

SHOWING  THE  MONASTERY  OF  St. 

George 

99 

9  9 

136 

Excavations  of  Ancient  Jericho 

•  • 

99 

99 

9  9 

140 

Walls  of  Ancient  Jericho 

•  • 

9  9 

99 

9  9 

144 

The  Jordan  .... 

•  • 

99 

99 

9  9 

148 

The  Dead  Sea 

•  • 

9  9 

99 

99 

152 

Acre,  as  approached  from  Haifa 

•  • 

99 

99 

9  9 

168 

Walls  of  Acre 

•  • 

99 

99 

99 

170 

Nazareth  .... 

•  ♦ 

9  9 

9  9 

99 

177 

A  Street  in  Nazareth 

•  • 

99 

99 

99 

180 

Mary’s  Well  at  Nazareth 

•  • 

99 

99 

99 

184 

Distant  View  of  Tiberias  and  Sea  of  Galilee 

99 

9  9 

99 

190 

Tiberias  ..... 

•  • 

9  9 

99 

9  9 

196 

Damascus  :  from  the  Hill 

•  • 

9  9 

9  9 

99 

208 

Abraham’s  Oak,  Damascus 

•  * 

9  9 

9  9 

99 

216 

The  River  Abana  :  just  beyond  Damascus 

99 

99 

9  9 

220 

A  Street  in  Damascus 

•  • 

99 

99 

9  9 

222 

Damascus  :  the  Old  City  Wall 

•  • 

99 

99 

99 

226 

The  East  Gate  of  Damascus  . 

•  • 

99 

99 

99 

232 

MAP 

The  Holy  Land 

•  • 

♦ 

9  9 

99 

99 

284 

THE 


LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

I 

THE  LANDING  AT  JAFFA 

'  In  the  name  of  God  glorious  and  Almighty.  He  that 
will  pass  over  the  Sea  to  the  City  of  Jerusalem  may  go 
many  ways,  both  by  sea  and  land,  according  to  the 
country  that  he  cometh  from.'  Thus  wrote  Sir  John 
Maundeville,  Knight,  a  native  of  St.  Albans  in  England. 
It  was  one  of  the  few  truths  that  he  disclosed  and  may 
on  that  account  be  treasured. 

Now  although  it  is  common  knowledge  that  Jerusalem 
is  in  Palestine,  there  are  persons  of  some  enlightenment 
who  are  a  little  doubtful  as  to  the  precise  situation  of  the 
country  itself.  They  are  familiar  with  the  isolated  map 
of  the  Holy  Land  and  know  that  it  is  shaped  like  a  slice 
of  bread,  whereof  the  straight  crust  stands  for  the  coast¬ 
line,  and  the  soft,  gnawed  edge  for  the  inland  boundaries. 
This  familiarity  is  possibly  due  to  the  fact  that  when  a 
schoolboy  is  set  to  draw  a  map,  as  a  holiday  task,  he 
always  selects  Palestine,  partly  because  of  its  extreme 
ease  of  outline,  and  partly  because  the  selection  may 


2 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


carry  with  it  a  beneficial  suggestion  of  early  piety  and 
therefore  count  for  righteousness.  Where  to  place  the 
territory  is  another  matter,  and  I  believe  I  am  conveying 
information  when  I  say  that  the  Holy  Land  forms  the 
blind  end  of  the  Mediterranean  and  that  its  shores  are 
washed  by  the  same  waters  that  break  beneath  the 
gambling-rooms  at  Monte  Carlo  and  make  delectable  the 
promenade  at  Nice. 

To  return  to  the  shrewd  saying  of  Sir  John.  It  is 
the  custom  of  most  to  reach  Palestine  by  taking  ship  at 
Port  Said  and  going  to  Jaffa,  a  port  described  in  the 
Bible  dictionaries  as  being  on  the  border  of  Dan.  It  is 
a  passage  that  appeals  as  much  to  the  imagination  as  does 
any  the  Knight  of  St.  Albans  ventured  upon.  From 
Port  Said  to  the  land  of  Canaan !  From  the  very  new  to 
the  very  old  !  Among  towns  of  any  pretence  in  the 
world  Port  Said  is  probably  the  newest  and  rawest.  It 
was  called  into  being  by  a  very  modern  engineering 
enterprise.  Not  only  is  every  building  of  it  new,  but  the 
actual  land  upon  which  it  is  founded  may  claim  to  be  of 
yesterday,  since  it  has  been,  for  the  most  part,  gathered 
in  from  the  sea.  Dig  beneath  the  bricks  and  stones  of 
any  town  of  note  and  the  spade  unearths  remains  of  pre¬ 
existing  men,  but  dig  beneath  the  foundations  of  Port 
Said  and  there  is  nothing  but  the  Nile  mud  of  seasons 
still  remembered,  the  sand  still  salt  from  the  sea,  the  shells 
still  bright  with  the  colours  that  even  now  mark  the 
drift  on  the  beach. 

Across  a  bight  of  the  sea,  north-east  from  the  Canal 
Port,  is  the  land  of  the  ancient  Israelites,  the  land  that 
first  crept  out  of  the  darkness  at  the  dawn  of  the  history 


THE  LANDING  AT  JAFFA 


3 


of  mankind.  Port  Said  is  a  by-product  of  the  Suez  Canal 
Company,  while  Jaffa  was  a  settlement  that  the  Phoeni¬ 
cians  founded  in  the  land  of  the  Philistines.  '  The  journey 
between  the  two  places  occupies  some  twelve  hours  and  is 
appropriately  made  at  night,  so  that  the  traveller,  whose 
last  sight  of  the  new  world  takes  the  form  of  a  turbine- 
driven  liner,  ablaze  with  electric  lights,  may  sleep  and 
dream  and  on  awakening  come  upon  that  port  in  the  old 
world  from  which  Jonah  started  on  his  journey  to 
Tarshish  by  boat. 

He  must  be  dull  who  does  not  look  eagerly  at  sunrise 
for  the  first  sight  of  this  venerable  country.  As  the 
horizon  brightens  there  will  appear  the  Holy  Land,  the 
land  about  which  he  read  when  he  was  first  able  to  read, 
the  place  where  the  Bible  was  written  and  where  the 
great  religion  of  the  world  arose.  It  seems  a  land  as 
remote  from  the  world  of  to-day  as  that  land  of  once- 
upon-a-time  where  the  children’s  tales  commenced.  What 
does  he  expect  to  see  emerge  from  the  dull  shadow  far 
ahead  of  the  ship’s  prow  ?  What  will  he  behold  that 
will  make  this  land  unlike  any  other  land  in  the  world  ? 
He  can  hardly  expect  to  find  a  company  of  armed  Philis¬ 
tines  patrolling  the  beach,  or  to  hear  from  city  walls  the 
sound  of  sackbut  and  psaltery,  or  to  see  the  smoke  of  a 
burnt-offering  rising  to  the  skies.  He  expects  something 
uncommon,  but  unless  his  mood  be  very  matter-of-fact  he 
must  prepare  for  a  great  disillusion. 

There  are  few  first  glimpses  of  famous  spots  that 
are  not  disappointing.  The  first  sight  of  Niagara,  for 
example,  arouses  a  feeling  of  actual  resentment  in  that  the 
view  is  so  tamely  like  the  pictures  and  photographs  which 


4 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


have  been  for  years  familiar.  I  can,  for  my  own  part, 
only  recall  three  occasions  when  the  actual  view  far  ex¬ 
ceeded  the  anticipation  of  it.  These  were  the  first  glimpse 
of  Venice  as  seen  from  a  ship’s  deck  at  the  dawn  of  a 
summer’s  day,  the  first  sight  of  the  Grand  Canon  of  the 
Colorado  from  the  brink  at  Bright  Angle,  and  the  first 
sudden  view  of  the  Taj  Mahal  at  Agra. 

On  nearing  Jaffa  in  the  early  morning  what  is  there 
in  sight  ?  Merely  a  low  line  of  bare  coast,  not  only 
treeless  and  blank  but  also  colourless,  for  the  sun  is  rising 
behind  it.  It  is  a  land  so  stripped  of  every  feature  or 
characteristic  as  to  be  merely  an  antithesis  to  the  sea.  It 
is  a  coast — nothing  more — a  coast  reduced  to  the  simplest 
possibilities,  so  that  it  is  as  lacking  in  individuality  as 
a  coastline  on  a  map.  As  the  light  increases  the  rudi- 
mental  bank  becomes  rose-coloured,  while  a  line  of  white 
foam  marks  it  off  from  the  leaden  sea.  Of  this  new  earth 
indeed  it  is  possible  to  say  little  more  than  that  it  is  not 
water.  It  seems  to  befit  the  primordial  account  in  the 
Book  of  Genesis  when  God  said,  '  Let  the  dry  land  appear : 
and  it  was  so.  And  God  called  the  dry  land  Earth ;  and 
the  gathering  together  of  the  waters  called  he  Seas.’ 
The  apparent  absence  of  vegetation  suggests  that  here  at 
least  the  work  of  creation  had  proceeded  no  further.  It 
comes  to  pass,  therefore,  that  the  first  visible  part  of  the 
land  of  Canaan  can  be  merely  described  as  '  dry  land.’ 

In  a  while  J affa  is  reached,  where  the  steamer,  with  no 
more  ceremony  than  is  expressed  by  the  mate’s  command 
‘  leggo,’  drops  anchor  about  a  mile  from  the  beach.  The 
ancient  name  of  Jaffa  was  Joppa,  '  and  you  shall  under¬ 
stand,’  writes  the  exact  Maundeville,  that  it  is  one  of 


THE  LANDING  AT  JAFFA 


5 


the  oldest  towns  of  the  world,  for  it  was  founded  before 
Noah's  flood.'  The  antediluvian  city  stands  on  a  low, 
whale-backed  hill  which  it  covers  from  its  summit  to  the 
water's  edge.  It  is  a  very  modern  place,  differing  in  no 
notable  feature  from  fifty  other  Mediterranean  seaports. 
On  its  crown,  like  the  spike  of  a  helmet,  is  the  spire  of  a 
Roman  Catholic  church.  Then  follows  a  medley  of  white, 
brown,  and  yellow  walls,  of  green  sun  shutters  and  red 
roofs.  Far  away  behind  the  town  some  hills  are  to  be 
seen.  These  are  the  mountains  of  Judea  looking  toward 
Bethel. 

There  were  two  English  ladies  on  the  steamer  who 
appeared  to  view  the  scene  with  some  mistrust.  They 
were  both  old,  bent,  white-haired,  and  given  to  mumbling. 
They  both  wore  spectacles.  About  their  shoulders  were 
wrapped  woollen  knitted  shawls,  while  their  dress  was 
daringly  Victorian.  They  had  no  doubt  come  from  some 
hibernating  English  village  where  one  could  picture  either 
of  the  two  with  the  wrap  over  her  head  waiting  at  the 
gate  of  a  garden  of  hollyhocks  for  the  village  postman. 
Although  they  were  no  more  fit  to  travel  than  a  couple 
of  pet  sheep  they  had  come  to  see  the  Holy  Land  and  so 
to  realise  the  dream  of  their  lives.  It  is  easy  to  imagine 
with  what  discussion  in  the  village  the  pilgrimage  had 
been  initiated,  and  with  what  sinking  of  heart  the  ancient 
serving  maid,  her  mind  full  of  wrecks  and  robbers,  had 
received  their  last  instructions  as  to  the  fowls  and  the  cat. 
I  had  seen  these  two  old  ladies  a  night  or  so  before  in  a 
drinking  saloon  at  Port  Said,  in  a  glaring  room,  sultry 
with  smoke  and  the  reek  of  spirits,  where  red-faced  men, 
infidels  and  heretics,  sat  at  round  tables,  talked  and 


6 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


wrangled,  played  poker  or  tossed  with  dice  in  the  hot 
blare  of  a  band  hammering  out  music-hall  tunes.  The 
two  gentle  old  creatures  huddled  together  in  the  smoke 
were  as  much  out  of  place  as  a  nun  at  a  prize-fight,  and 
the  proprietor  of  the  saloon  was  at  a  loss  to  know  what 
to  do  with  them.  They  had  been  advised  to  dine  ashore, 
and,  meeting  in  the  street  a  *  nice  kind  boy,’  they  had  asked 
him  to  recommend  a  respectable  hotel.  The  '  nice  kind 
boy  ’  had  naturally  taken  them  to  the  establishment 
where  he  would  get  most  baksheesh  for  his  introduction. 
They  were,  however,  soon  directed  aright  and  very 
appropriately  housed. 

Now  from  the  deck  of  the  ship  they  were  taking  their 
first  look  at  the  Holy  Land.  On  either  side  steamers  were 
noisily  discharging  cargo,  around  the  ship  was  a  crowd  of 
boats  full  of  screaming  men,  agents  for  tours,  touts  from 
hotels,  and  boys  selling  postcards.  The  most  conspicuous 
object  ashore  was  a  large  advertisement  of  a  popular 
whisky.  What  they  had  expected  to  come  upon  I  do 
not  know,  but  it  was  evidently  not  this  modern  Babel. 
They  drew  aside,  looking  at  one  another  almost  re¬ 
proachfully,  but  saying  nothing,  as  if  they  had  been 
shocked  into  silence  by  this  shattering  of  their  dream. 

There  is  no  harbour  at  Jaffa,  but  in  its  place  a  dis¬ 
orderly  reef  of  black,  jagged  rocks,  running  parallel  with 
the  beach.  These  make  a  rude  breakwater  under  the  lee 
of  which  small  boats  find  a  shelter.  A  narrow  gap  in  the 
middle  of  this  stockade  of  stones  provides  access  to  the 
open  sea.  It  is  the  dash  through  this  gap  that  gives 
the  final  terror  to  the  process  of  landing. 

Jaffa  is  celebrated  for  at  least  two  things :  its  excellent 


THE  LANDING  AT  JAFFA 


7 


oranges  and  its  infamous  landing.  The  landing  is  no 
worse  than  that  from  any  open  roadstead  where  the  water 
is  shallow  and  where  the  voyager  has  to  make  an  ill- 
protected  beach.  The  boats  are  long,  six-oared  galleys, 
manned  by  a  crew  of  nine  men.  Of  these  men  it  is  safe 
to  say  that  finer  boatmen  are  not  to  be  found  in  the 
Mediterranean,  nor,  probably,  in  any  other  sea.  It  is  the 
business  of  their  lives  to  land  passengers  and  goods  all 
the  year  through,  although  with  strong  westerly  or  north¬ 
westerly  winds  so  heavy  a  sea  swings  in  that  it  is  unsafe 
for  any  boat  to  venture  beyond  the  rocks.  Thus  it  is 
that  at  certain  times  of  the  year  landing  at  Jaffa  is 
impossible  for  days  or  even  for  weeks.  We  met  a  young 
lady  in  the  town — the  daughter  of  an  English  official 
there,  who  was  returning  home  from  Port  Said.  When 
she  arrived  off  J  affa  no  landing  was  possible,  so  she  was 
carried  on  to  Bey  rout.  There  she  waited  for  a  south¬ 
going  steamer  of  the  same  company,  but  was  again  carried 
past  Jaffa  and  landed  once  more  at  Port  Said.  In  the 
third  attempt  she  succeeded  in  getting  ashore  with  a 
wetting ;  but  the  whole  excursion  occupied  her  a  fortnight, 
whereas  the  normal  passage  from  Port  Said  to  Jaffa  is 
twelve  hours ! 

I  gathered  that  the  landing  at  Jaffa  is  classified 
locally  under  three  types  which  are  defined  as  ‘  no  good," 
‘  all  ri,"  and  ‘  very  nice."  We  landed  when  it  was  '  all  ri " 
— which  meant  that  getting  ashore  was  possible  but  un¬ 
pleasant.  The  steamer  roUs  from  side  to  side,  not  only 
immoderately  but  apparently  from  mere  wantonness. 
The  result  is  that  the  passenger,  awaiting  his  turn  on  the 
top  of  the  ladder,  sees  the  galley  raised  at  one  moment 


8 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


to  the  level  of  his  outstretched  arms  and  then  dropped 
to  such  a  depth  that  the  upturned  faces  of  the  crew  are 
below  his  feet.  The  tourist  who  is  '  accustomed  to  boats 
and  understands  the  sea/  as  well  as  the  tourist  who  has 
initiative,  will  meet  with  trouble  at  this  juncture  if  they 
take  any  action  on  their  own  account.  I  would  advise 
the  passenger  at  this  crisis  to  commit  his  spirit  to  heaven 
and  his  body  to  Thomas  Cook  &  Son,  inasmuch  as  that 
firm  has  reduced  landing  at  Jaffa  to  a  reliable  art.  Let 
him  be  passive  as  a  parcel,  let  him  read  a  book  or  con¬ 
template  the  sky.  He  will  find  himself  suddenly  lifted 
off  his  feet  by  four  massive  arms,  he  will  then  experience 
the  sensation  of  being  in  a  fast  descending  lift,  and  will 
next  be  aware  that  he  is  sitting  on  a  seat  in  the  boat  with 
a  silly  smile  on  his  face.  People  will  fall  on  him,  tread  on 
him  and  sit  on  him,  but  he  is  on  his  way  to  the  shore, 
and,  as  the  helmsman  repeatedly  assures  him,  it  is  '  all  ri.' 

Then  comes  the  row  to  the  land,  a  passage  which  is 
conducted  with  great  spirit.  It  is  when  the  tourist  is 
well  away  from  the  ship  that  he  can  experience 

‘  The  heave  and  the  halt  and  the  hurl  and  the  crash 
of  the  comber  wind-hounded.’ 


Ahead  is  the  black,  savage  palisade  of  rocks  upon  which 
the  sea  is  breaking  with  the  noise  of  thunder.  The  whole 
jagged  line  is  white  with  foam,  while  the  little  gap  for 
which  the  boat  is  making  seems  to  be  choked  by  a  howling 
eddy  and  is  half  hidden  by  sleet-like  spray.  As  the  pass 
is  neared  the  din  becomes  portentous,  the  sea  is  lashed 
into  maniacal  ferocity,  wet  gusts  strike  the  traveller 
in  the  face  and  he  appears  to  be  drifting  to  destruction. 


THE  LANDING  AT  JAFFA 


9 


Then  in  a  moment  the  boat  is  lifted  up,  as  it  were  from 
beneath,  is  rushed  hissing  through  the  passage,  and  is 
poured  together  with  the  sea  that  bears  it  into  the  harbour 
just  as  water  is  poured  out  of  a  bucket. 

For  those  who  are  not  going  ashore  the  disembarka¬ 
tion  process  is  interesting  to  watch  because  the  cargoes 
are  so  varied.  Into  a  shore-boat  that  is  moving  up  and 
down  like  the  piston  of  an  engine  will  be  lowered  a  ward¬ 
robe  and  an  immense  looking-glass,  followed  by  a  live 
gazelle.  Then  will  come  two  or  three  indefinite  women 
with  their  heads  tied  up,  a  wooden  bedstead,  some  fowls, 
a  Greek  priest,  baskets  of  food  and  a  red  and  blue  box 
covered  with  Arabic  inscriptions.  This  goes  on  until  the 
steamer  seems  reasonably  empty. 

The  beach  at  Jaffa  is  sandy.  Straight  out  of  the 
sand  rise  the  walls  of  the  town.  The  little  natural  boat 
harbour  where  the  passenger  lands  is  interesting,  for  here 
also  was  landed  the  cedar  wood  from  Lebanon  which  was 
used  in  the  building  of  Solomon's  Temple.  This  timber 
was  sent  from  Tyre  by  the  order  of  Hiram,  King  of 
Tyre,  and  came  down  the  coast  in  rafts,  or,  as  the 
Book  of  the  Chronicles  words  it,  Gn  flotes.'  With  the 
timber  the.  King  sent  '  a  cunning  man  endued  with 
understanding,'  so  it  may  be  hoped  that  the  rafts  were 
got  ashore  in  a  seamanlike  manner.  From  the  beach  the 
pieces  of  wood  were  carried  up  winding  paths  along  the 
hillside  and  thence  to  Jerusalem.  While  we  were  at 
Jaffa  it  was  of  interest  to  note  that  many  camels  and 
many  men  were  employed  all  day  carrying  planks  of  wood 
and  other  building  material  up  from  the  beach.  In  every 
twisting  lane  that  led  through  the  town  men  with  planks 


10 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


and  camels  with  planks  were  ever  to  be  seen.  All  this 
wood  was  going  up  to  Jerusalem,  but  it  was  not  cedar 
wood  from  Lebanon,  and  it  was  being  dispatched  to  the 
City  of  David  by  goods  train. 

There  is  another  episode  connected  with  this  little 
haven  which  has  a  more  human  interest.  One  day  very 
long  ago,  according  to  the  old  writing,  there  came  down 
to  the  beach  a  haggard  man,  a  stranger,  clad  in  unfamiliar 
garb,  who,  breathless  and  excited,  inquired  for  a  boat 
going  to  Tarshish.  Such  a  boat  lay  in  the  harbour  ;  he 
climbed  hurriedly  over  the  side  of  it,  paid  for  his  passage, 
and  then,  throwing  himself  down  exhausted  in  the  bottom 
of  the  craft,  was  soon  fast  asleep.  This  was  J  on  ah  in  the 
act  of  escaping  from  the  country.  No  one  now  knows 
where  Tarshish  was  except  that  it  was  a  long  way  off. 
'  To  go  to  Tarshish '  seems  to  have  been  equivalent  in 
ancient  days  to  the  modern  seaman's  expression  ‘  to  go 
foreign.' 

The  story  of  Jonah  is  in  many  ways  curious,  especially 
the  end  of  the  narrative,  when  the  prophet  goes  to  curse 
Nineveh  and  to  foretell  its  destruction.  We  see  him,  an 
irritable  melancholiac,  walking  out  of  the  city  Wery  angr^^- ' 
because  the  spell  does  not  work,  and  then  comfort¬ 
ably  settling  himself  down  in  a  shady  booth  at  a  safe 
distance  from  the  walls  so  that  he  might  obtain  a  good 
view  of  the  debacle  when  the  great  city  crumbled  to 
pieces. 

The  traveller  when  he  first  places  his  foot  upon  the 
Holy  Land,  as  represented  by  the  little  pier  at  J  affa,  finds 
himself  involved  in  a  crowd  of  miscellaneous  people  who 
are  rushing  about  as  aimlessly  as  ants  in  a  disturbed  ants' 


THE  LANDING  AT  JAFFA 


II 


nest.  When  he  has  elbowed  his  way  clear  of  the  mob  he 
discovers  that  he  is  in  the  narrow  street  which  leads  up 
from  the  quay.  The  road  is  paved  in  a  manner  and  is 
full  of  mud,  but  the  larger  cobbles  act  as  stepping-stones 
whereby  he  is  able  to  avoid  the  masses  of  vegetable  refuse 
and  discarded  rags  which  are  strewed  in  his  path.  The 
street  is  busy  with  human  beings,  and  as  he  blends  with  the 
throng  he  feels  that  he  has  become  one  of  the  people  of  the 
Land  of  Promise.  No  one  heeds  his  presence  nor  regards 
him  as  a  stranger  because,  according  to  Baedeker,  20,000 
pilgrims  pass  through  Jaffa  every  year,  while,  according 
to  the  shipping  agent,  no  less  than  8000  tourists  land  at 
this  port  during  the  very  brief  Palestine  season. 

The  folk  in  the  street  are  of  many  kinds — men  in  brown 
blankets  and  in  striped  blankets,  men  in  tarboushes 
and  in  white  turbans,  men  in  red  jackets  with  blue  bag 
trousers,  wild  creatures  in  sheepskins,  veiled  women  in 
black,  solemn  personages  in  dark  academical  gowns,  and 
cheerful  folk  in  rags.  The  mud  in  the  way  is  kept  churned 
to  a  creaking  tune  by  naked  feet,  by  scarlet  shoes,  by 
black  slippers  and  by  machine-made  boots.  Mixed  up 
with  this  multitude  are  many  camels  and  donkeys  and  a 
few  desultory  sheep.  These  animals  draw  their  feet  out 
of  the  mud  with  a  sound  like  that  of  a  cork  coming  out 
of  a  bottle.  The  variety  of  smells  is  as  bewildering  to 
the  nose  as  is  discordant  music  to  the  ear.  The  dragoman 
will  assure  you  with  pride  that  these  odours  are  more 
acute  and  penetrating  in  the  height  of  the  summer,  but 
the  statement  baffles  a  normal  imagination. 

The  streets  traversed  are  narrow  and  steep.  They 
ramble  and  intertwine  like  the  branches  of  a  bramble 


12 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


bush.  The  traveller  passes  under  arches,  under  over¬ 
hanging  windows,  under  leaning  buildings  that  nod  across 
the  road  like  willow  trees.  He  finds  himself  eddying 
about  among  such  an  indescribable  medley  of  houses  of 
every  shape  that  Jaffa  seems  to  resolve  itself  into  a  kind 
of  builders’  scrap-heap  whereon  have  been  cast  all  the 
discarded  or  misfit  dwellings  of  a  century.  Yet  this 
is  the  town  that  Antony  gave  to  Cleopatra  as  a  lover’s 
gift. 

The  breathless  and  faltering  tourist  who,  by  exercising 
the  agility  of  the  gazelle,  has  just  managed  to  keep  his 
dragoman  in  sight,  now  asks  that  invaluable  man  where 
he  is  being  taken  to.  The  dragoman  replies  that  he  is 
taking  him  to  the  house  of  Simon  the  Tanner.  This  has 
a  hospitable  and  restful  sound  which  is  very  comforting. 
It  will  be  remembered  that  St.  Peter  ‘  tarried  many  days 
in  Joppa  with  one  Simon,  a  tanner,’  that  Simon’s  house 
was  '  by  the  seaside,’  and  that  it  was  on  the  roof  of  the 
house  that  St.  Peter  fell  into  a  trance.  Now  the  house 
in  question  is  in  a  poor  quarter  of  Jaffa.  It  is  not  by  the 
seaside,  but  is,  on  the  contrary,  near  the  summit  of  the 
hill,  on  that  slope  of  it  which  looks  seawards.  Moreover, 
it  is  not  a  house  but  a  mosque,  and,  further,  it  is  quite  safe 
to  say  that  to  no  man  is  known  the  site  of  the  tanner’s 
dwelling.  Eastern  houses  of  the  type  a  tanner  would 
occupy  are  of  so  flimsy  a  kind  that  they  would  barely 
survive  a  lifetime.  Many  centuries  have  passed  away 
since  St.  Peter  was  at  Joppa.  During  these  years  the 
town  has  been  besieged,  laid  low,  and  burnt  to  the  ground, 
not  once  but  many  times.  When  Bertrandon  de  la  Broc- 
quiere,  first  esquire-carver  to  that  most  redoubted  lord. 


JAFFA  :  FROM  ROOF  OF  HOUSE  OF  SIMON  THE  TANNER 


•j 


*«.• 


•  « 


THE  LANDING  AT  JAFFA 


13 


Philip  of  Burgundy,  visited  Jaffa  in  1432  he  found  that 
place  '  entirely  destroyed,  having  only  a  few  tents  covered 
with  reeds,  whither  pilgrims  retire  to  shelter  them¬ 
selves  from  the  heat  of  the  sun/  It  can  hardly  be 
supposed  that  for  wellnigh  two  thousand  years,  marked  as 
they  have  been  by  recurrent  desolation,  a  non-Christian 
people  would  be  at  pains  to  preserve  the  site  of  a  humble 
dwelling  with  the  history  of  which  they  were  totally  un¬ 
concerned.  A  sacred  site,  however,  is  a  valuable  property 
in  Palestine  ;  so  a  site  there  must  be,  and  thus  it  is  that 
the  curious  can  visit  the  house  of  Simon  upon  payment  of 
one  piastre  per  person  to  its  Moslem  caretaker.  It  is 
this  one  piastre  per  person  and  not  the  sacredness  of  the 
spot  that  keeps  green  the  memory  of  St.  Peter's  friend 
in  Jaffa.  It  may  be  said  that  the  site  shown  to  the 
tourist  is  not  undisputed  even  in  J affa,  for  the  authorities 
of  the  Latin  hospice  maintain  that  their  house  is  built 
upon  the  exact  spot  occupied  by  the  elusive  tanner. 

The  pathway  to  the  one-piastre  house  is  singularly 
rich  in  both  mud  and  garbage.  It  passes  near  to  a 
fragment  of  the  old  city  wall  which,  although  of  no  great 
antiquity,  is  one  of  the  few  ancient  relics  in  Jaffa.  The 
‘  Maison  de  Simon  '  is  represented  by  a  mean  little  mosque 
which  is  quite  modern  and  quite  dirty.  It  suggests  a  wine 
vault  rather  than  a  sacred  building.  About  it  is  a 
picturesque  yard  with  a  well  and  a  fig  tree.  A  few  stone  , 
steps  lead  to  the  top  of  the  mosque,  from  whence  a 
generous  view  of  the  town  and  of  the  sea  is  to  be  obtained. 
The  visitor  looks  down  upon  small  flat  roofs  capped  with 
white  domes  like  inverted  basins,  and  can  obtain  a  glimpse 
of  those  little  sequestered  courts  which  hide  behind  the 


14 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


houses  of  the  poor.  Moreover,  there  lies  at  his  feet  the 
whole  scene  of  Andromeda's  adventure. 

The  story  of  this  ill-used  woman  is  little  more  than 
an  episode  in  a  family  brawl.  It  appears  that  Andro¬ 
meda's  mother,  on  some  occasion,  ventured  the  remark 
that  she  thought  she  was  better  looking  than  Juno.  This 
not  unfeminine  reflection  threw  Juno's  brother,  Neptune, 
into  such  a  state  of  unreasoning  passion  that  he  proceeded 
to  destroy  the  estate  of  Andromeda's  parents  with  all  the 
forces  at  his  disposal,  including  a  sea  monster.  As  the 
value  of  Andromeda's  property  was  rapidly  deteriorating, 
Jupiter,  the  head  of  the  family,  was  consulted.  He  gave 
it  as  his  opinion  that  the  only  way  to  stop  Neptune  from 
further  ‘  goings  on  '  was  to  chain  Andromeda  to  a  rock 
and  allow  her  to  be  devoured  by  the  monster.  It  was 
further  proposed  that  this  inconsiderate  sentence  should 
be  carried  out  at  Jaffa. 

It  was  to  one  of  the  rocks  which  form  the  present  boat 
harbour  that  the  unfortunate  young  woman  was  fastened. 
A  more  vapid  and  unromantic  scene  for  so  pathetic  a 
drama  could  not  have  been  selected.  It  would  have  been 
as  fitting  if  the  poor  lady  had  been  chained  to  one  of  the 
brown  rocks  which  are  exposed  at  low  tide  at  Margate. 

Fortunately  at  the  critical  moment  Perseus  appeared 
and  stabbed  the  dragon  in  the  right  shoulder  blade  with  a 
dagger.  As  we  have  collateral  evidence,  furnished  by 
Sir  John  Maundeville,  that  the  monster  measured  eighty 
feet  round  the  chest,  this  wound  does  not  appear  to  be 
quite  satisfying  from  either  a  dramatic  or  a  surgical  point 
of  view.  So  we  rely  rather  upon  another  account  which 
says  that  Perseus  turned  the  amphibian  into  stone.  Of 


THE  LANDING  AT  JAFFA  15 

course  Perseus,  according  to  the  etiquette  of  the  time, 
married  Andromeda. 

The  moral  of  the  story  appears  to  be  directed  generally 
against  the  unwise  habit  of  '  saying  things  '  about  people. 
The  guide  books  state  that  even  down  to  the  Middle  Ages 
the  chains  with  which  Andromeda  was  bound  were  shown 
— on  payment  of  a  small  fee  no  doubt — to  the  tourists 
of  the  period.  It  will  be  evident  therefore  that  Jaffa 
has,  from  quite  early  days,  been  seriously  concerned  in 
the  preservation  of  ancient  monuments. 

I  venture  to  think  that  the  most  interesting  spot  in 
Jaffa  is  a  certain  corner  of  the  Public  Garden  where 
three  roads  meet.  So  ancient  are  these  tracks  that  they 
are  probably  among  the  very  earliest  settled  paths  made 
by  the  feet  of  men.  They  have  been  traversed  by  the 
Canaanite  and  the  Phoenician,  by  the  Philistine  and  the 
Roman  soldier,  by  the  Paynim  and  the  Crusader.  That 
road  of  the  three  which  turns  southwards  goes  to  Gaza, 
one  of  the  five  great  cities  of  the  Philistines,  the  city  whose 
gates  Samson  carried  upon  his  shoulders  to  the  top  of 
a  hill  that  is  before  Hebron.  The  middle  way  leads  to 
Jerusalem,  and  it  may  be  claimed  for  it  that  it  is  the  most 
travelled  road  in  all  the  world.  The  track  that  passes 
northwards  is  the  road  to  Shechem,  the  ancient  capital 
of  Samaria. 

A  curious  blending  of  the  Bible  with  the  local  directory 
is  afforded  by  the  information  that  the  Ottoman  Bank  lies 
on  the  road  to  Gaza. 

The  outskirts  of  Jaffa  are  exceedingly  pleasant,  since 
the  town,  except  where  it  fronts  the  sea,  is  hemmed 
around  by  orange  gardens,  and  the  green  of  the  orange 


i6 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


tree  never  falters  nor  grows  dim.  The  usual  drive  is 
to  the  Russian  monastery  along  a  quiet  lane  shut  in  with 
hedges  of  prickly  pear.  The  monastery  garden,  with  its 
paved  alleys  and  solemn  paths,  is  a  place  of  peace.  Here 
are  the  sycamore  of  the  Bible,  the  locust  tree,  the 
oleander,  and  the  olive.  Many  cypresses  grow  in  the 
garden  as  well  as  many  palms  of  the  humbler  kind.  From 
among  the  shadows  of  the  trees,  and  across  the  vast  pool 
of  unfathomable  green  dotted  with  gold  which  marks  the 
orange  grove,  is  the  white  immaculate  city  of  J  affa.  As 
seen  from  the  monastery  close  it  is  a  city  of  enchantment, 
the  unspeakable  city  in  whose  streets  still  floats  the 
perfume  of  the  cedar  wood  of  Tyre  and  above  whose 
roofs  St.  Peter  saw  the  gleaming  vessel  descend  from 
heaven.  It  would  be  well  if  the  town  could  ever  remain 
afar  off  and  unapproachable,  since  long  before  the  poor 
bedraggled  walls  are  reached  the  adorable  fabric 
vanishes. 

The  monastery  church  is  of  necessity  erected  upon  a 
sacred  spot — upon  the  site  of  the  house  of  Tabitha.  For 
this  there  is  no  ancient  authority  and  no  modern  evidence 
except  the  casual  impression  of  the  builder.  Moreover, 
in  the  garden  is  a  rock-hewn  tomb  with  a  mosaic  floor 
which  is  exhibited,  without  a  blush  and  without  any 
faltering  of  speech,  as  the  burial-place  of  Dorcas.  The 
claim,  daring  as  it  is,  would  probably  not  deceive  a 
child  of  six. 

Assuredly  somewhere  in  or  about  Jaffa  stood  the 
house  of  Dorcas,  the  woman  '  who  was  full  of  good  works 
and  almsdeeds.'  The  story  of  what  took  place  in  the 
house  some  two  thousand  years  ago  is  one  of  the  many 


JAFFA  :  FROM  GARDEN  OF  THE  MONASTERY  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  TABITHA 


V 


THE  LANDING  AT  JAFFA 


17 


terse,  intensely  vivid  narratives  which  make  the  Bible 
so  remarkable  as  a  literary  work.  The  words  run  only  to 
a  line  or  so  and  yet  we  can  see  that  upper  chamber  of  the 
little  house  in  which  the  body  of  the  dead  woman  was  laid. 
Above  her  stands  the  austere,  absorbed  figure  of  the  Man 
of  God.  He  is  engrossed  in  the  contemplation  of  the  kindly 
face  on  the  pillow,  while  round  him  crowd  a  number  of 
weeping  women  who  insist  upon  showing  him  '  the  coats 
and  garments  which  Dorcas  made,'  thrusting  each 
admired  specimen  of  her  needlework  under  his  solemn 
eyes.  He  turns  them  all  from  the  room,  closes  the  door, 
and  kneels  down  by  the  side  of  the  figure  on  the  bier. 

If  ever  the  story  of  Jaffa  comes  to  be  told  it  will 
provide  a  narrative  of  battle  and  siege,  of  plague,  pesti¬ 
lence  and  famine,  of  murder  and  burning  that  can  have 
few  equals  in  the  hideous  chronicles  of  war.  The  last 
scene  was  not  so  long  ago,  only  so  far  back  indeed  as 
the  spring  of  1799,  when  the  progress  of  Napoleon  was 
being  opposed  by  England  and  Turkey.  Leaving  Desaix 
and  his  Ethiopian  supernumeraries  to  hold  Egypt,  he 
determined  to  accomplish  the  conquest  of  Syria  and  the 
East,  to  raise  in  revolt  the  Christians  of  the  Lebanon  and 
Armenia,  overthrow  the  Turkish  power  in  Asia,  and  then 
march  either  on  Constantinople  or  Delhi.  1  What  did 
happen  was  this.  Bo^iaparte  marched  on  Jaffa  and,  on 
March  6,  in  spite  of  a  spirited  defence,  he  took  it  by  storm. 
With  the  town  was  taken  a  vast  host  of  men.  ‘  What 
could  he  do  with  these  2500  or  3000  prisoners  ?  They 
could  not  be  trusted  to  serve  with  the  French ;  besides 


^  Life  of  Napoleon  I,  by  John  H.  Rose,  vol.  i.  p.  201.  (London.  1902.) 

C 


i8 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


the  provisions  scarcely  sufficed  for  Bonaparte's  own  men, 
who  began  to  complain  loudly  at  sharing  any  with  Turks 
and  Albanians.  They  could  not  be  sent  away  to  Egypt, 
there  to  spread  discontent ;  and  only  300  Egyptians  were 
so  sent  away.  Finally,  on  the  demand  of  his  generals 
and  troops,  the  remaining  prisoners  were  shot  down  on 
the  seashore.'  ^  Had  even  Jaffa  seen  before  such  a  sight 
as  this — over  two  thousand  men  murdered  in  cold  blood 
at  the  foot  of  their  own  town  !  It  would  seem  as  if  the 
waves  of  a  century  would  not  suffice  to  wash  the  stain 
of  blood  out  of  the  yellow  sands. 

After  Jaffa  came  the  march  to  Acre  and  the  assault 
upon  that  town.  But  the  English  were  already  there  and 
had  made  stout  ravelins  and  ramparts  out  of  the  ancient 
walls.  At  the  beginning  of  May,  Bonaparte  made  a 
desperate  attempt  to  carry  Acre  by  storm.  He  was 
repulsed.  He  attacked  again  and  again,  but  failed  to 
turn  the  British  out  of  what  he  termed  their  ‘  mud  hole.' 
As  the  month  wore  on  a  new  ally  came  to  the  help  of  the 
men  in  the  mud  hole  in  the  form  of  the  plague.  Death 
was  soon  busy  among  the  French.  Although  a  breach 
had  been  made  in  the  wall  many  battalions  refused  to 
advance  towards  it,  because  they  had  to  walk  over  the 
swollen  and  putrid  bodies  of  so  many  of  their  comrades. 
On  May  20  Bonaparte  gave  the  order  to  retreat. 

Then  began  the  march  back  to  Jaffa,  and  among 
marches  fearful  in  history  this  is  one  of  the  most  terrible. 
The  plague  marched  with  the  column.  Men  fell  on  all 
sides  ;  troopers  dropped  from  their  saddles,  dead  ;  many 


’  Life  of  Napoleon  I,  by  John  H.  Rose,  vol.  i.  p.  203.  (London.  1902.) 


THE  LANDING  AT  JAFFA 


19 


committed  suicide  as  they  walked,  for  to  tramp  on  was 
only  to  prolong  misery  and  pain,  to  drop  behind  was  to  be 
murdered,  so  a  bullet  through  the  brain  was  the  best  way 
home.  Every  horse  was  employed  in  carrying  a  sick 
or  a  wounded  man,  while  the  looked-for  hospitality  at 
Jaffa  was  furnished  by  a  lazar  house. 

The  sufferings  of  the  sick  in  that  town  must  have  been 
beyond  imagining.  A  number  of  those  who  were  able  to 
be  moved  were  taken  away  in  ships,  while  800  were  con¬ 
veyed  to  Egypt  in  carts  and  litters  across  the  desert. 
Those  left  behind  were  left  to  die,  yet  when  the  English 
Commodore  arrived  at  Jaffa  a  little  later  he  found  '  seven 
poor  fellows  still  alive.'  Still  alive  !  There  is  meaning  in 
those  words.  Still  alive  after  a  fruitless  campaign,  after 
helping  to  shoot  down  2000  unarmed  men  on  the  beach, 
after  the  fetid  trenches  at  Acre,  after  the  death-march 
back  by  the  sea,  after  the  delirium  of  the  plague  house, 
after  the  endless  procession  of  dead  men  carried  out  on 
litters  to  the  tolling  of  bells.  Still  alive  ! 


II 

THE  WAY  TO  JERUSALEM 

The  journey  from  Jaffa  to  Jerusalem  is  most  conveniently 
made  by  rail.  The  distance  by  this  route  is  fifty-four 
miles,  and  as  the  train  occupies  three  and  three-quarter 
hours  in  the  passage  the  speed  is  such  as  to  allow  the 
traveller  a  generous  opportunity  of  surveying  the  country 
traversed.  The  train  is  not  only  slow  but  the  engine 
appears  to  labour  exceedingly  and  to  need  a  considerable 
rest  at  each  station  in  order  to  recover  its  breath.  As 
Jerusalem  lies  2500  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  much 
of  the  journey  is  up  hill,  and  this  ascent  the  engine 
accomplishes  with  the  gasps  of  a  wearied  but  determined 
asthmatic.  The  details  of  the  journey  and  of  all  other 
journeys  are  arranged  by  a  dragoman,  and  I  should  like 
here  to  record  my  indebtedness  to  the  dragoman  who 
accompanied  us,  and  to  whose  kindness,  intelligence,  and 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  country  and  its  history  we  owe 
much. 

The  station  at  Jaffa  is  small,  noisy,  and  confused,  as 
well  as  servilely  commonplace.  Strangers  who  expect 
that  a  station  in  the  Holy  Land  should  present  some 
Biblical  or  Canaanitish  feature  will  be  disappointed,  since 

20 


THE  WAY  TO  JERUSALEM 


21 


the  terminus  differs  in  no  essential  from  a  station  on  a 
local  line  in  Italy  or  France.  The  carriages  make  no 
pretence  to  reach  beyond  that  humble  standard  of  com¬ 
fort  which  attains  throughout  Palestine.  The  native 
passengers  in  the  third-class  carriages  lean  dangerously 
out  of  the  window  most  of  the  way,  and  as  they  appear 
to  be  not  only  acquainted  with  one  another  but  with  all 
the  countrymen  within  hailing  distance  of  the  line  and 
all  the  folk  at  every  railway  station,  there  is  a  considerable 
outpouring  of  speech  before  the  journey  ends. 

After  the  pretty  garden  suburbs  and  the  orange  groves 
of  Jaffa  are  passed  the  train  enters  upon  the  Plain  of 
Sharon.  This  level  plain  extends  from  Jaffa  to  Mount 
Carmel  and  from  the  foothills  of  Judea  to  the  sea.  It 
is  diligently  if  ineffectually  cultivated.  Many  square 
miles  are  given  up  to  grass  lands,  but  the  vaster  area  is 
covered  by  ploughed  fields  in  the  winter  and  by  fields 
of  corn  in  the  spring.  It  was  at  the  end  of  January 
that  we  went  up  to  Jerusalem,  at  a  time  when  the  whole 
plain  was  green  with  rising  blades  of  wheat.  About  the 
villages  are  fig  and  olive  trees,  with  an  occasional  palm  or 
cypress,  and  a  tangle  of  poor  bush.  There  are  eucalyptus 
trees  around  the  stations,  but  with  these  exceptions  the 
vast  flat,  so  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  is  practically  treeless. 
Such  hedges  as  exist  are  mostly  of  prickly  cactus,  a  sour, 
wizened,  and  unnatural  plant  which  is  at  best  a  miserable 
substitute  for  the  hawthorn  or  the  elder  bush  of  the 
Dorset  lane.  The  villages  passed  are  secretive-looking 
clumps  of  flat-topped  huts  made,  it  would  seem,  of  a 
chocolate-coloured  mud  and  decorated  with  litter  and 
refuse.  Such  roads  as  exist  look  like  brown  veins 


22 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


traversing  the  green.  The  Plain  of  Sharon  is  emphatically 
not  beautiful.  Indeed,  from  its  vastness  and  monotony,  it 
is  very  wearisome.  It  is  as  level  as  a  billiard  table  and 
almost  as  smooth  and  as  uniformly  green.  One  thinks  of 
the  Rose  of  Sharon  and  imagines  banks  and  terraces 
covered  with  some  such  transcendental  crimson  rambler  as 
runs  riot  in  old  Persian  embroideries ;  but  the  Rose  of 
Sharon  the  learned  say  is  no  other  than  the  sickly 
narcissus. 

In  the  spring — that  is,  from  early  March  to  early  May — 
the  plain  and  indeed  the  whole  country  are  covered, 
we  are  assured,  with  flowers  both  wondrous  and  brilliant. 
Now  to  those  who  visit  Palestine  at  other  times  than  the 
spring  these  flowers  become  somewhat  of  a  burden.  The 
out-of-season  tourist  hears  probably  more  of  them  than 
the  spring  tourist  sees  of  them.  They  recur  like  a 
universal  chorus  when  applied  to  a  dozen  different  songs. 
If  any  comment  be  made  upon  the  uncouthness  of  a  spot 
there  is  ever  the  answer :  ‘  But  you  should  see  it  when 
the  flowers  are  out.*  If  the  poverty  of  the  land  be 
criticised  there  is  the  ready  reply :  '  But  you  should  see 
it  when  the  flowers  are  out.*  Yet  a  difficulty  stands  in 
the  way  of  witnessing  this  spectacle. 

There  are  three  seasons  in  the  Holy  Land,  viz. :  the 
winter,  when  the  land  is  bare  and  the  roads  are  mud ;  the 
summer  and  autumn,  when  the  land  is  bare  and  the  roads 
are  dust ;  and  the  spring,  when  all  is  assumed  to  be 
beautiful.  The  heavy  rains,  the  'former  rains*  of  the 
Bible,  come  in  the  winter.  'The  latter  rains,*  which 
are  light,  fall  in  March  and  April.  After  May  follow  the 
months  of  heat  and  drought,  when  the  land  dries  up,  when 


THE  TRAIN  FROM  JAFFA  TO  JERUSALEM 


THE  WAY  TO  JERUSALEM 


23 


the  vegetation  crackles  like  a  parchment,  and  the  earth  is 
baked  like  a  brick.  It  is  obvious,  therefore,  that  the 
spring  is  the  time  of  election.  It  is  the  time  of  the  flowers, 
but  it  is  also  the  time  of  the  tourists.  Now  the  tourists 
do  not  come  in  small,  awed  and  devout  parties — they  come 
in  ravening  hordes  ;  not  in  companies  of  ten  but  in  hosts  of 
a  hundred.  Since  the  Christian  Era  Palestine  has  been 
accustomed  to  pilgrims  of  all  kinds,  of  all  nationalities, 
and  of  all  degrees,  but  the  American  tripper  who,  landing 
in  his  strength  from  a  leviathan  '  pleasure  cruise,’  seeks 
to  '  do  the  Holy  Land  ’  in  three  or  four  days,  is  ^  le  dernier 
cri.’  Like  an  explosive  substance,  he  needs  room.  Sir 
Rider  Haggard,  in  his  charming  ‘  Winter  Pilgrimage,’ 
alludes  to '  a  gigantic  cheap  American  trip  numbering  over 
five  hundred  souls.’  As  the  country  is  very  small  it  is  evi¬ 
dent  that  a  humble  party  of  two  or  three  is  in  danger  of 
being  swept  away  by  the  advance  inland  of  such  a  host  as 
this.  It  comes  to  pass,  therefore,  that  when  the  flowers,  on 
the  one  hand,  are  tried  in  the  balance  against  the  tourists 
on  the  other,  the  weight  is  with  the  latter ;  so  that  the 
pilgrim  who  wishes  to  come  and  go  in  peace  must  content 
himself  with  either  the  ‘  former  rains  ’  or  the  drought, 
for  the  spring  is  denied  him. 

To  come  back  again  to  the  train.  The  Plain  of 
Sharon,  although  it  may  fail  to  delight  the  eye,  has  this 
more  solid  attraction,  that  it  is  a  true  part  of  the  land 
of  the  Philistines,  and  that  as  we  see  it  now  so  did  they 
see  it  then.  This,  in  a  country  of  imposture  and  make- 
believe,  is  something  to  lay  hold  of.  There  is  still  the 
same  green  flat  stretching  between  the  blue  hills  of  Judea 
and  the  pansy-coloured  sea.  No  doubt  in  the  days  when 


24 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


Abner,  son  of  Ner,  the  captain  of  the  host,  looked  from 
the  heights  for  signs  of  the  Philistine  camp  the  land  was 
more  deeply  wooded,  richer  and  more  luxuriant.  It  is 
now  threadbare,  poor,  and  spiritless,  for  the  rule  of  Turkey 
has  afflicted  the  country  with  a  kind  of  social  and  political 
malaria. 

Looking  across  the  plain  from  the  carriage  window, 
there  may  not  be  a  modern  building  in  sight.  The 
primitive  villages  differ  probably  but  little  from  the 
village  of  the  days  of  Christ,  if  only  the  kerosene  tins  could 
be  turned  into  water  jars  of  earthenware.  The  shepherd 
and  the  sheep  are  the  same  as  those  who  were  present  in 
the  eyes  of  the  Good  Shepherd  and  who  belong  to  the 
time  when  Sharon  was  ^  a  fold  of  flocks.’  Here  and  there 
a  belated  man  is  ploughing  with  two  oxen.  The  plough  he 
guides  is  a  tough  crook  of  oak  shod  with  iron,  and  those 
who  are  learned  in  these  things  say  that  this  is  the  plough 
of  the  time  of  the  Parable  of  the  Sower.  On  the  ancient 
roadway — a  mere  track  of  foot-stamped  mud — a  woman 
will  be  riding  on  a  donkey ;  the  outline  of  her  head  is  very 
gracious  as  it  is  seen  through  the  hood  she  wears.  She 
might  have  come  from  some  old  Italian  picture  showing 
the  journeyings  of  the  Saints.  There  are  strings  of 
camels  and  men  walking  in  single  file,  just  as  they  do  in 
ancient  wall  paintings,  the  camels  with  so  supercilious  a 
stride  and  the  men  with  so  weary  a  bearing  that  the 
camels  seem  to  be  driving  the  men  into  captivity.  The 
scene  is  so  in  harmony  with  the  setting  appropriate 
to  certain  events  of  Scripture  history  that  it  would  not 
be  incongruous  if  a  marauding  party  of  Philistines  was 
to  be  seen  hurrying  across  the  plain. 


THE  WAY  TO  JERUSALEM 


25 


These  Philistines  were  a  slashing  and  hardy  folk,  and 
it  would  be  well  for  the  country  if  a  new  colony  of  Philis¬ 
tines,  free  from  Turkish  control,  could  make  a  present- 
day  settlement  on  the  coast.  The  Philistines  of  old  were 
sea  rovers  who,  sailing  out  from  Crete,  or  from  the  ^Egean 
Islands,  descended  upon  Canaan  as  the  Danes  descended 
upon  East  Anglia.  They  were  a  non-Semitic  people, 
superior  in  culture  and  enterprise  to  the  Hebrew  settlers 
who  already  occupied  the  land.  They  established  them¬ 
selves  in  the  level  country  which  lies  between  Carmel  and 
the  frontier  of  Egypt,  and  in  this  land  of  Peleshet  they 
built  five  fortified  outposts — namely  at  Ekron,  Ashdod, 
Ascalon,  Gaza,  and  Gath.  From  pirates  they  became 
cattle  raiders  and  robbers  of  threshing-floors ;  from  mere 
buccaneers  they  became  merchant  adventurers  and  men 
of  crafts.  They  kept  up  a  constant  guerilla  warfare  with 
the  old  settlers,  the  much  worried  people  of  Israel,  and 
could  bring  into  the  field,  on  occasion,  not  a  mere 
rabble  of  brigand  carles  but  a  mighty  and  brilliant  army, 
such  as  gathered  at  Michmash  which  is  eastward  from 
Beth-aven. 

In  this  army  there  were  the  pickets  and  the  scouting 
parties  of  light  infantry,  carrying  bows,  together  with  the 
solid  phalanx  of  the  men-at-arms.  These  latter  wore 
round  helmets  and  coats  of  mail ;  they  carried  javelins 
and  long  lances  and  each  was  attended  by  a  shield-bearer. 
It  was  these  roundheads  who  became  the  terror  of  the 
men  of  Israel,  who  made  '  the  people  faint  ’  and  so 
harassed  them  that  they  '  did  hide  themselves  in  caves, 
and  in  thickets,  and  in  rocks,  and  in  high  places,  and  in 
pits.*  There  was  neither  town  nor  village  on  the  border 


26 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


that  had  not,  at  some  time  or  another,  been  awakened  by 
a  breathless  messenger  who,  as  he  ran  through  the 
startled  street,  called  out  '  Haste  thee,  and  come ;  for 
the  Philistines  have  invaded  the  land/  It  may  be 
assumed  that  the  Philistines  fought  both  for  lust  of 
battle  and  for  the  love  of  loot,  both  for  the  seizing  of 
pasture  land  and  for  the  keeping  open  of  the  great  caravan 
routes  to  Damascus  by  the  north  and  to  Egypt  by  way 
of  the  desert. 

Now  for  long  years  a  sickly  silence  has  fallen  upon  the 
Plain  of  Sharon.  Where  was  once  ‘  the  noise  of  a  whip 
and  the  noise  of  the  rattling  of  the  wheels  and  of  the 
pransing  horses,  and  of  the  jumping  chariots  '  there  is 
now  only  the  puffing  of  the  locomotive  and  the  rattle  of 
the  tourist  train. 

The  first  station  of  note  on  the  way  to  Jerusalem  is 
Lydda,  a  little  place  lost  in  a  great  olive  grove.  Here 
lies  the  body  of  no  less  a  person  than  St.  George,  the 
patron  saint  of  Merrie  England,  the  same  who  figures 
in  the  coinage  of  our  country  as  a  man  naked  but  for  a 
hat  and  scarf  and  who,  sitting  bareback  on  a  jibbing 
horse,  threatens  a  much  convulsed  dragon  with  a  knife. 
As  a  further  test  of  faith  the  passer-by  is  told  that  the 
saint  was  born  in  Lydda,  or — as  the  town  was  then  called — 
Lod.  It  is  said  that  a  church  has  stood  over  the  remains 
of  this  fearless  being  ever  since  the  sixth  century.  The 
tomb  is  still  in  excellent  repair  and  can  be  seen  by  loyal 
Englishmen  and  others  on  payment  of  a  fee  of  five 
piastres  per  person  to  the  Greek  sacristan.  The  pre¬ 
servation  of  the  tomb  must  be  due  to  some  miraculous 
circumstance,  for  it  would  appear  that  the  church  in  which 


THE  WAY  TO  JERUSALEM  27 

it  stands  has  been  destroyed,  laid  in  ruins,  and  indeed 
razed  to  the  ground,  not  less  than  five  times. 

A  little  way  beyond  Lydda  the  tower  of  the  white 
mosque  of  Ramleh  becomes,  and  for  long  remains,  the 
most  conspicuous  feature  of  the  landscape.  It  is  of 
considerable  antiquity,  dating,  as  many  say,  from  the 
commencement  of  the  fourteenth  century.  As  seen 
from  the  railway  it  is  neither  impressive  nor  picturesque, 
since  it  has  much  the  appearance  of  a  white  lighthouse. 

A  far  more  interesting  object  is  the  Jerusalem  road 
which  is  crossed  near  to  Ramleh.  J udged  by  the  standard 
of  European  highways  it  would  be  classed  as  a  farm  road 
in  indifferent  repair,  yet  it  is  one  of  the  most  famous 
human  causeways  in  the  world.  Through  what  astonishing 
scenes  in  history  does  this  humble  little  track  wend  its 
way !  The  chariot  wheels  of  the  Philistines  have  made 
ruts  in  its  sorry  surface,  the  camels  that  bore  the  cedar 
wood  for  the  building  of  Solomon's  Temple  have  turned 
its  dust  into  clouds,  and  pilgrims  '  as  the  sand  which  is  on 
the  seashore  in  multitude  '  have  left  the  impress  of  their 
feet  on  its  mud.  One  would  almost  expect  to  find  this  via 
sacra  paved  with  gold,  or  bleached  white  with  men's  bones, 
or  made  luminous  by  the  saintly  folk  who  have  passed 
along  it.  There  are  none  of  these  features,  but  in  the 
place  of  them  and  as  a  sign  and  symbol  of  the  times  there 
is  a  level  crossing  athwart  the  road  that  leads  to  the  City 
of  David. 

A  little  farther  on  a  friendly  dragoman  points  to  a 
clump  of  trees  on  the  right  of  the  line  among  and  around 
which  are  a  few  modern  buildings.  He  says  that  this 
is  the  Jewish  Agricultural  Colony  of  Akir,  and  adds 


28 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


mechanically  that  Akir  is  the  surviving  representative  of 
Ekron,  the  famous  city  of  the  Philistines,  and  concludes  by 
muttering  ‘Joshua  thirteen  three,'  as  if  he  were  giving 
the  telephone  number  of  the  place.  Ekron  was  the 
northernmost  fortress  of  Peleshet.  It  stood  boldly  on 
the  frontier,  the  outpost  of  a  defiant  people,  a  strong  place 
full  of  strong  men.  On  its  watch-towers  the  sentry  never 
slept,  above  its  walls  was  ever  the  gleam  of  helmet  and 
spear,  while  its  narrow  streets  rang  night  and  day,  and 
through  summer  and  winter,  with  the  footsteps  of  men- 
at-arms.  There  was  never  peace  in  Ekron,  and  so  it  is 
that  the  old  chronicles  have  much  to  tell  of  the  part  it 
played  in  a  border  war  that  saw  many  generations  come 
and  go. 

But  there  is  one  event  in  the  history  of  this  battered 
place  which  is  so  tender  and  so  childlike  that,  in  my 
thinking,  it  makes  the  country  about  Akir  the  most 
enchanting  spot  on  the  road  to  Jerusalem. 

This  is  the  story  as  the  chronicle  tells  it.  The 
Philistines,  in  one  of  their  raids  upon  the  men  of  Israel, 
captured  the  Ark  of  God  and  took  it  with  them  from 
Ebenezer  to  their  stronghold  at  Ashdod.  At  once,  in 
consequence  of  this,  dire  trouble  fell  upon  Ashdod,  a 
trouble  so  disastrous  that  the  cry  soon  arose :  ‘  What 
shall  we  do  with  the  ark  of  the  God  of  Israel  ?  '  The 
constable  of  the  town  was  prompt  in  his  action,  for  he 
sent  the  Ark  away  to  Gath.  No  sooner  had  it  reached 
that  city  and  had  been  carried  through  the  gaping  crowds 
in  the  streets,  than  a  deadly  pestilence  broke  out  which 
was  followed,  we  are  told,  by  ‘  very  great  destruction.' 
Thereupon  the  men  of  Gath  determined  to  send  the  Ark 


THE  WAY  TO  JERUSALEM  29 

to  Ekron,  to  Ekron  the  invincible  and  fearless  city  that 
cared  for  naught  and  was  dismayed  by  naught. 

So  to  Ekron  the  Ark  came  and  with  it  came  the  Angel 
of  Death.  The  garrison  thought  little  of  siege  and 
assault,  and  little  of  fire  and  famine,  but  of  this  black 
horror  that  laid  men  low  silently  and  mysteriously,  that 
strangled  them  in  the  dark,  that  spared  neither  great  nor 
small,  they  had  an  unconcealed  and  appalling  fear.  A 
council  of  the  wise  men  of  the  city  was  called  at  which  it 
was  decided  that  the  Ark  should  be  sent  back  to  the 
land  of  Israel.  The  resolve  was  carried  out  in  the 
following  simple  manner. 

A  new  cart  was  built  by  the  wheelwrights  of  the  town, 
by  men  who  were  better  versed,  no  doubt,  in  the  making  of 
chariots,  and  upon  it  the  Ark  was  placed.  It  then  seemed 
well  to  these  rough  filibusters  that  some  present  should 
be  sent  with  the  Ark  as  a  gracious  offering  and  as  a  token 
of  regret.  So  they  caused  to  be  made  five  little  images  in 
gold  and  five  little  golden  mice.  As  works  of  art  it  may 
be  supposed  that  these  figures  were  crude  and  scarcely 
above  the  achievement  of  a  child.  Possibly  some  burly 
armourer  laboured  over  them  and  found  the  task  ill 
fitted  to  his  clumsy  fingers.  He  could  hammer  out  a 
breastplate  or  a  pair  of  greaves,  but  such  tiny  things  in 
gold  made  his  hands  to  tremble. 

These  delicate  offerings  the  frontiersmen  put  into  a 
box,  and  the  box  was  placed,  solemnly  and  proudly,  in 
the  cart  by  the  side  of  the  Ark.  The  men  then  yoked 
two  milch  kine  to  the  new  cart  and,  leading  them  out  of 
the  town  by  the  gate  that  faced  the  border,  let  them  go 
in  whichever  way  they  would.  ^  And  the  kine  took  the 


30 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


straight  way  to  the  way  of  Beth-shemesh,  and  went  along 
the  highway,  lowing  as  they  went,  and  turned  not  aside 
to  the  right  hand  or  to  the  left.  And  they  of  Beth-shemesh 
were  reaping  their  wheat  harvest  in  the  valley  :  and 
they  lifted  up  their  eyes,  and  saw  the  ark,  and  rejoiced 
to  see  it.’ 

It  is  a  wonderful  picture — the  way  through  the  corn¬ 
fields,  the  lowing  cattle,  the  slowly  moving  Ark,  and  the 
men  of  Ekron  watching  from  the  gate  to  see  if  the  Ark 
would  ‘  go  again  to  his  own  place.’  Now  it  so  happens 
that  some  miles  beyond  Ekron  the  train  passes  a  spot 
marked  by  a  few  fragmentary  ruins.  These  are  the 
ruins  of  Ain-es-shems  and  they  stand  upon  the  site  of  the 
Beth-shemesh  of  the  days  of  old.  The  railway  therefore 
follows  the  road  from  Ekron  to  Beth-shemesh,  and  indeed 
this  memorable  highway  of  the  lowing  kine  runs  parallel 
with  the  track. 

However  much  the  country  may  have  altered  since 
the  time  when  the  Ark  passed  by,  there  are  still  the 
cornfields  and  still  the  grey  hills  streaked  with  lilac 
shadows  towards  which  the  creaking  cart  from  Ekron 
made  its  way.  Here  at  least  is  the  actual  scene  of 
an  event  in  Bible  history,  unspoiled  by  any  church  and 
undefiled  by  the  parade  of  priestcraft. 

The  train  is  now  in  the  Wadi-es-Sarar  or  valley  of 
Sorek,  and  it  will  be  remembered  that  Samson  '  loved  a 
woman  in  the  valley  of  Sorek,  whose  name  was  Delilah.’ 

This  valley  is  no  glen  of  enchantment,  no  luscious  glade 
of  the  siren  ;  on  the  contrary  it  is  a  bleached,  cheerless 
gulley  full  of  stones,  almost  bare  of  trees  and  frowned 
upon  by  barren,  uninviting  hills.  There  are  a  few  flocks 


THE  WAY  TO  JERUSALEM 


31 


and  herds  to  be  seen,  but  it  is  hard  to  understand  what 
the  sheep  and  the  goats  and  the  cattle  live  upon,  since 
the  whole  valley  is  as  grey  and  sapless  as  the  lichen  on 
a  gravestone.  Here  indeed  are  both  ‘  the  cattle  ’  and 
^  the  thousand  hills,’  but  the  landscape  that  embraces  them 
is  ungenerous,  niggardly,  and  mean.  The  fascination  of 
Delilah  must  have  been  great  indeed  if  she  could  attract 
any  but  a  prospecting  stone  merchant  to  this  wizened 
spot.  One  will  be  told  of  course  that  in  spring  Sorek  is 
ablaze  with  flowers,  but  it  is  not  always  spring  in  Palestine. 

It  is  while  the  melancholy  of  the  valley  is  upon  one 
that  the  dragoman  points  to  a  bare,  featureless  hill  on 
the  left  and  remarks  casuaJly  that  it  was  there  that 
Samson  lived.  He  draws  attention  to  the  place  in  the 
same  matter-of-fact  manner  in  which  he  would  indicate 
a  German  clothing  factory.  These  demonstrations  of 
scenes  from  sacred  history  come  upon  the  unprepared 
with  some  degree  of  shock.  With  most  of  us  Bible 
history  belongs  to  the  Garden  of  Youth,  when  capricious 
facts  are  graven  on  the  mind  in  fantastic  hieroglyphics. 
In  the  very  early  days  when  a  small  forefinger  follows 
the  line  of  startling  print,  when  words  are  not  words 
unless  read  aloud,  and  when  the  telling  of  tales  is  an 
evensong  for  the  restless  and  an  opiate  for  minor  pains, 
the  narratives  of  Scripture  and  the  nursery  story  all 
belong  to  one  category  of  general  knowledge.  In  these 
uncritical  years  Jack  the  Giantkiller  is  as  real  as  is  that 
David  who  slew  Goliath  with  a  pebble  from  out  of  a 
brook.  As  for  the  Amorites,  the  Hittites,  and  the 
Jebusites,  are  they  not  of  the  same  world  as  the  tribes 
of  Lilliput,  and  may  they  not  have  been  encountered  by 


32 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


Sinbad  the  Sailor  on  his  many  voyagings  ?  Whatever 
the  fault  may  be,  whether  the  instruction  is  given  at  too 
impressionable  an  age,  or  is  conveyed  in  too  spiritual  a 
manner,  the  fact  remains  that  it  is  difficult  with  many  to 
associate  Bible  scenes  with  spots  on  the  solid  earth,  with 
places  which  may  be  actually  reached  by  steamers  and 
trains,  and  about  which  it  would  not  be  irreverent  to 
inquire  if  they  afforded  convenient  hotel  accommodation. 
Thus  it  is  that  we  are  apt  for  a  moment  to  resent  the 
belief  that  a  hill  pointed  out  by  a  prosing  guide  from 
a  railway  carriage  window  is,  in  all  seriousness,  the 
birthplace  of  Samson,  just  as  we  should  repudiate  the 
statement  that  it  was  the  early  home  of  Peter  Pan. 

Samson,  apart  from  his  immense  strength,  would 
appear  to  have  been,  to  the  end  of  his  days,  little  more 
than  an  overgrown  boy,  spoilt,  self-indulgent,  given  to 
practical  jokes  and  to  bragging. 

His  exploit  at  Gaza  was  just  such  a  prank  as  an 
undergraduate  would  delight  in.  The  watch  at  Gaza 
actually  '  laid  wait  for  him  all  night  in  the  gate  of  the 
city,'  feeling  sure  that  they  would  take  him  in  the 
morning ;  but  at  midnight  Samson  comes  rollicking 
along  and,  chaffing  the  local  Dogberrys  as  they 
crouched  in  the  shadows  by  the  porter's  lodge,  takes  up 
the  gates  themselves  and  walks  off  with  them  into  the 
country,  his  great  shoulders  shaking  with  laughter  as  he 
pictures  the  dismay  of  his  would-be  captors. 

The  manner  in  which  he  treated  Delilah  when  she 
was  trying  to  worm  out  of  him  the  secret  of  his  strength 
can,  so  far  as  I  know,  be  described  by  no  English  word 
other  than  the  schoolboy's  expression  '  rotting.'  Samson 


THE  WAY  TO  JERUSALEM 


33 


*  rotting '  Delilah  is  a  little  comedy  that  the  boy  in  the 
Bible  class  will  ever  appreciate,  just  as  he  will  understand 
that  nothing  but  Samson's  love  of  swagger  would  have 
caused  him  to  '  give  himself  away '  as  he  did  over  the 
matter  of  his  riddle. 

Samson,  however,  had  a  pretty,  if  caustic  wit,  for 
when  his  young  friends — after  having  coaxed  the  answer 
to  the  riddle  out  of  Samson's  wife — tell  it  him  as  if  it  were 
a  discovery  of  their  own,  the  strong  man,  guessing  what 
had  happened,  says  shrewdly  and  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye :  '  If  ye  had  not  ploughed  with  my  heifer,  ye  had  not 
found  out  my  riddle.' 

It  cannot  be  claimed  that  the  scenery  of  the  country 
where  the  drama  of  Samson's  life  was  played  can  add  one 
single  touch  of  vividness  or  of  character  to  the  familiar 
history.  The  background  indeed  is  as  negative  as  a  bank 
of  mist.  Keith  truly  says,  in  his  '  Land  of  Israel,'  that 
‘  the  rounded  and  rocky  hills  of  Judea  swell  out  in  empty, 
unattractive,  and  even  repulsive  barrenness,  with  nothing 
to  relieve  the  eye  or  captivate  the  fancy.’ 

Now  commences  the  long,  solemn,  mysterious  ascent 
through  the  country  of  the  everlasting  hills  to  the  City  of 
David.  I  know  of  no  approach  to  any  town  that  is  quite 
so  austere  or  so  haunting  as  this.  The  road  toils  ever 
upwards,  hidden  from  the  sight  of  the  world,  along  an 
interminable  valley  of  stones,  along  a  melancholy  ravine, 
suUen  and  secretive. 

The  hills  are  bare  save  for  some  hectic  grass  and 
starveling  scrub.  The  rain-scoured  sides  are  made  up  of 
mummy-brown  earth  in  which  grey  stones  are  laid  in 
horizontal  lines,  and  so  regular  are  these  ledges  of  rock 


34 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


that  they  look  like  penitential  steps  up  the  side  of  the 
steep.  For  some  sixteen  miles  there  is  scarcely  a  bush 
to  be  seen  and  never  a  tree.  Now  and  then  a  stream 
runs  along  the  bottom  of  the  trough,  but  it  is  as 
unsympathetic  as  the  stones  it  runs  between.  A  few 
goats  may  be  come  upon  here  and  there,  but  seldom  a 
sign  of  the  habitations  of  men. 

The  road  is  very  tortuous.  It  threads  its  way  through 
a  sunken  labyrinth  of  monotonous  rock.  The  train  turns 
to  the  right  and  to  the  left  as  if  it  were  bewildered,  or 
as  if,  being  caught  in  the  sinister  maze,  it  were  struggling 
to  escape.  At  every  moment  one  expects  some  relief, 
some  change  of  view,  but  the  outlook  is  ever  the  same. 
We  climb  up  hemmed  in  by  hills  and  hills  and  hills,  all 
barren,  all  impassive,  and  all  alike  in  shape.  We  seem 
to  pass  along  a  processional  road,  through  an  awful 
assemblage  of  earthen  pyramids,  crumbling  into  ruin. 

Beyond  this  hushed  labyrinth  and  at  the  end  of  the 
purgatorial  road,  along  which  surely  must  have  travelled 
the  Wandering  Jew,  is  the  Golden  City,  hidden  away 
in  a  strong  place  and  surrounded  by  the  ramparts  and 
trenches  of  a  wilderness  of  stone. 

At  the  end  of  the  winding  pass  we  come  upon  more 
open  country  and  finally  upon  a  valley  of  stones  which 
is  called  Bittir.  Dismal  and  barren  as  is  the  spot  it  is 
yet  the  abode  of  men,  for  the  village  of  Bittir  is  of  some 
pretence.  Goats  and  human  beings  are  searching  for  a 
living  among  the  rocks  and  the  stone  terraces  of  this 
harsh  place.  There  are  a  few  vines  in  the  valley  and  a 
few  olive  trees,  but  they  do  not  suffice  to  make  the  bare 
slopes  live. 


THE  WAY  TO  JERUSALEM 


35 


Bittir,  being  at  the  entrance  to  the  gorge  which  leads 
up  to  Jerusalem,  was  at  one  time  a  stronghold  of  for¬ 
midable  repute.  It  was  last  held  by  the  Jews  against 
the  Romans  during  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Hadrian  in 
the  year  a.d.  135.  The  garrison  for  a  period  of  no  less 
than  three  and  a  half  years  kept  at  bay  the  invincible 
forces  of  Rome,  and  when  the  last  defence  was  breached 
and  the  last  trench  rushed,  so  horrible  a  massacre  of  the 
inhabitants  took  place  that  the  tortured  valley  was  full 
of  dead.  It  was  a  memorable  victory,  for  it  marked  the 
failure  of  the  last  attempt  of  the  Jews  to  regain  their 
independence.  With  the  fall  of  Bittir,  indeed,  the  his¬ 
tory  of  the  Jews  in  the  Land  of  Promise  came  to  an  end. 

Throughout  Palestine  I  met  with  no  spot  which 
appeared  to  be  so  well  fitted  as  this  to  be  the  scene  of 
Ezekiel's  vision  of  the  Valley  of  Dry  Bones,  since  the 
place  is  so  unhappy  looking,  so  bleak,  and  so  full  of  the 
shadow  of  death. 

According  to  the  ancient  writings,  Ezekiel,  the  son  of 
Buzi,  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  valley  which  was 
full  of  dry  bones.  The  solitary  man,  standing  among 
the  bleached  bones  in  some  such  dread  glade  as  this, 
made  the  rocks  of  the  silent  place  to  echo  with  the 
startling  cry  :  '  O  ye  dry  bones,  thus  saith  the  Lord  God, 
I  will  cause  breath  to  enter  into  you  and  ye  shall  live.' 
Then  from  the  horrible  heaps  of  sightless  skulls  and 
grinning  jaws,  of  thigh-bones  and  white  claw-like  hands, 
there  arose  '  a  noise  and  a  shaking,  and  the  bones  came 
together,  bone  to  bone.'  More  than  that,  as  the  man 
-looked  '  the  sinews  and  the  flesh  came  up  upon  them,  and 
the  skin  covered  them  above :  but  there  was  no  breath  in 


36 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


them.’  In  the  dark  hollow  eye  sockets  of  each  mournful 
head  would  come  a  spark  of  light,  lips  would  cover  the 
ash-dry  teeth,  and  flesh  would  wrap  around  the  white 
hoops  of  the  ribs. 

Then  once  more  the  stillness  of  the  ghoulish  spot  was 
broken  by  the  voice  of  the  man  calling  out,  as  he  raised 
his  arms  heavenwards :  ‘  Come  from  the  four  winds,  O 
breath,  and  breathe  upon  these  slain,  that  they  may  live 
.  .  .  and  the  breath  came  into  them,  and  they  lived,  and 
stood  up  upon  their  feet,  an  exceeding  great  army.’ 

Such  an  army,  a  grave,  still  army,  might  well  line  the 
slopes  of  the  valley  of  stones  at  Bittir,  and  stand  out,  in 
gaunt  array,  against  the  sky-line  on  the  brink  of  the  glade 
and  fill  with  a  rustling,  earnest  crowd  the  way  that  leads 
to  J erusalem  as  well  as  the  pass  that  leads  to  the  sea. 

The  train,  after  crawling  out  of  Ezekiel’s  Valley  of 
Dry  Bones,  loiters  across  a  rock-strewn  plain  of  unreason¬ 
able  ugliness,  and  finally,  with  every  symptom  of  extreme 
exhaustion,  staggers  into  the  terminus  of  Jerusalem. 

Of  the  city  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen,  for  the  station 
is  in  a  land-to-let  modern  suburb  which  might  be  on 
the  outskirts  of  Toulon.  As  for  the  station  itself  it  is 
a  mere  sketch  of  a  wayside  halting-place — a  line  of  rails, 
a  small  house  with  a  clock,  and  a  white  fence.  There  was 
so  much  bustle  on  the  platform  that  I  thought  a  race 
meeting  or  some  such  boisterous  occurrence  must  be 
impending.  The  average  dragoman  now  rises  in  his 
might  and  shows  of  what  flashing  metal  he  is  made.  He 
is  hung  about  with  bags  and  ‘  things  ’  like  the  Knight 
in  ‘  Alice  in  Wonderland.’  He  implores  his  charge  to 
be  calm,  and  then  proceeds  to  throw  himself  about 


THE  WAY  TO  JERUSALEM  37 

among  the  crowd  as  if  he  were  taking  part  in  a  ‘  rally  * 
at  a  pantomime. 

Outside  the  white  fence  is  a  compact  mob  of  men 
with  their  heads  in  tarboushes  or  in  woollen  shawls,  and 
their  bodies  in  rags.  These  are  the  hotel  touts,  the  cab 
runners,  the  bazaar  scouts,  the  shopmen's  pickets,  the 
guides,  and  the  general  inutility  men  who  flourish  in  the 
East  as  tares  among  wheat. 

To  this  rabble  the  defenceless  tourist  is  flung  as  a 
sheep  to  a  pack  of  wolves.  He  is  forced  through  the 
narrow  gate  as  through  the  wicket  in  a  sheep-fold.  He 
is  received  with  a  hungry  roar,  and,  resisting  feebly,  is 
drawn  into  the  unclean  human  whirlpool.  Every  man 
in  the  crowd’  appears  to  have  at  least  six  forearms  of 
exceptional  reach.  These  are  all  outstretched  towards 
him  as  he  revolves  in  the  perspiring  eddy.  Cards  are 
thrust  into  his  face  or  jammed  into  his  pocket.  Whatever 
he  carries — if  it  be  only  a  stick  or  a  pair  of  gloves — is 
torn  from  him  as  if  it  were  something  for  the  famished 
to  eat.  He  is  pawed  over  by  a  hundred  damp  and  dirty 
hands.  He  is  trodden  upon  by  naked  feet  and  by 
flopping  shoes.  He  is  rolled  between  a  hundred  bony 
bodies,  as  if  he  were  undergoing  some  process  of  manu¬ 
facture,  and  is  finally  ejected  into  a  cab  in  the  form  of  a 
Victoria  which  has  probably  seen  its  better  days  in  the 
streets  of  Paris  or  of  Naples. 


Ill 

THE  FIRST  VIEW  OF  THE  HOLY  CITY 

The  supreme  moment  is  now  at  hand ;  in  another  second 
or  so  there  will  burst  upon  the  eye  of  the  traveller  a  view 
of  the  city  of  all  cities.  The  spectacle  is  usually  vouch¬ 
safed  under  disturbing  and  unbecoming  circumstances. 
Twelve  cabs  will  start  from  the  station  yard  at  one 
time  and  will  then  proceed  to  race  to  the  Holy  City. 
The  purpose  of  the  racing  is  threefold.  It  is  assumed, 
in  the  first  place,  that  the  tourist  wishes  to  arrive 
promptly  at  the  hotel  in  order  to  secure  accommodation 
in  advance  of  others.  The  driver,  on  his  part,  is  eager 
to  display  the  fleetness  of  his  horse,  in  view  of  further 
service;  and,  finally,  he  has  probably  a  reputation  in 
the  cab-racing  world  which  he  is  anxious  to  maintain. 

The  cabs,  starting  at  a  gallop,  reach  the  top  of  a  hiU 

and  proceed  to  dash  down  it  as  if  they  were  escaping 

from  Sodom  or  Gomorrah.  There  is  Jerusalem  on  the 

next  hilltop,  but  it  is  impossible,  owing  to  the  speed  of 

the  cab,  to  the  effort  involved  in  clinging  to  its  unsteady 

and  collapsing  framework,  and  in  rescuing  items  of 

luggage  from  destruction,  to  give  the  city  other  than 

incidental  attention.  Before  the  traveller  realises  the 

38 


THE  FIRST  VIEW  OF  THE  HOLY  CITY  39 


fact,  the  twelve  cabs,  driven  in  a  fashion  that  Jehu 
the  son  of  Nimshi  would  approve,  have  passed  across 
the  Valley  of  Hinnom  and  are  climbing  the  side  of  the 
Mount  of  Zion.  Before  him  the  fare  sees  but  one  all- 
prominent  object.  It  is  a  very  new  Jubilee  clock  of 
white  stone,  in  which,  with  regrettable  skill,  the  pungent 
vulgarity  of  the  Jubilee  clock  of  England  is  reproduced 
in  an  Oriental  medium.  This  clock  stands  by  the  Jaffa 
gate,  and  through  that  gate  the  entrance  to  Jerusalem 
is  made. 

For  my  own  part,  on  the  advice  of  my  dragoman,  I 
did  not  share  in  the  chariot  race.  It  was  sufficient  to 
see  the  cabs,  in  a  disorderly  troop,  dash  down  the  hill, 
the  tourists  rocking  to  and  fro  as  if  they  were  borne  upon 
a  tempestuous  sea  and  were  buffeted  by  a  mighty  wind. 
The  Valley  of  Hinnom  represents  the  Tattenham  Corner 
of  this  Epsom  of  Mount  Zion.  Beyond  that  point  the 
cabs  draw  out  into  a  straggling  line,  with  two  horses 
possibly  running  neck  and  neck,  the  whips  cracking,  and 
the  drivers  shouting  with  appropriate  profanity. 

Common  rumour  will  have  it  that  the  first  sight  of 
Jerusalem  is  very  disappointing.  It  is  obvious  that  the 
disappointment,  if  any,  must  depend  upon  the  degree 
of  expectancy  with  which  the  city  is  approached.  If 
the  visitor  thinks  to  see  the  Golden  Jerusalem  of  the 
hymn-book,  or  the  rainbow  city  of  the  coloured  print,  or 
the  walled  place  of  two  thousand  years  ago,  he  will 
experience  some  such  disappointment  as  will  befall  the 
foreigner  who  expects,  on  emerging  from  Cannon  Street 
railway  station,  to  see  traces  of  the  great  Roman  camp 
which  stood  on  the  bank  of  the  Walbrook. 


40 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


The  first  view  of  Jerusalem  will,  I  think,  satisfy  any 
person  of  reason.  Here  in  a  bleak,  inhospitable  retreat, 
approached  by  a  weary  defile  through  bleaker  hills,  is 
the  passionate,  sorrowful  city  where  was  enacted  the 
great  drama  of  the  world.  It  would  seem  to  have 
hidden  itself  away  from  the  eyes  of  men,  as  a  hermit 
in  a  secret  place  among  the  rocks,  alone  with  the 
memory  of  wellnigh  three  thousand  tragic  years. 

The  traveller,  at  his  first  glance,  sees  on  a  pale  hill  of 
stone  the  corner  of  a  walled  city.  The  yellow  light 
of  the  setting  sun  illumines  it  and  makes  it  glow  as  if 
by  the  light  from  a  lamp. 

That  which  before  all  things  arrests  the  eye  is  not 
the  city  but  the  massive  wall  which  encircles  it  about. 
Every  battlement  on  the  parapet  stands  out  clear  cut 
and  bright.  The  square,  broad-shouldered  towers  which 
hold  the  height  at  just  such  intervals  as  a  sentry  would 
pace,  throw  sharp,  purple  shadows  on  the  long  curtain 
behind  them.  There  are  domes  and  pinnacles  and  roofs 
in  untold  multitude  beyond  the  wall,  but  they  are  as 
the  tree-tops  in  a  convent  garden. 

The  first  impression  of  Jerusalem  is  that  of  a  strong 
place  built  upon  a  height,  of  a  fortress  city  spacious  and 
dignified,  of  a  living,  breathing  town  in  a  land  of  stones. 
So  harsh,  bleached,  and  colourless  is  the  country  round 
about  that  the  city  itself  is  as  the  shadow  of  a  rock  in  a 
weary  land.  With  the  exception  of  a  few  pallid  olive 
trees,  a  patch  here  and  there  of  indefinite  green,  and 
a  melancholy  cypress,  the  environs  of  Jerusalem  are 
a  dusty,  ungenial  limestone  waste. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  steep  scarp  on  which  the  city 


THE  FIRST  VIEW  OF  JERUSALEM 


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THE  FIRST  VIEW  OF  THE  HOLY  CITY  41 


stands  is  a  dry  valley  of  rocks.  This  is  the  valley  of  the 
long-dead  Kedron.  Near  the  valley  is  a  mass  of  stones 
displaying  sufficient  order  to  distinguish  ruinous  buildings 
from  tumbled  rocks.  This  is  the  village  of  Siloam.  On 
this  side  of  Jerusalem  there  is  no  other  suburb.  Within 
the  heavy  wall  is  the  city  ;  without  is  the  ochre-coloured 
limestone  desert.  Old  as  is  the  wall  there  is  no  look 
of  antiquity  about  the  town  itself,  which  may  be  a 
place  of  yesterday.  Far  away  beyond  Jerusalem  are 
the  lilac-blue  mountains  of  Moab  which  afford  to  this 
thousand-roofed  city  a  magic  and  unsubstantial  back¬ 
ground. 

When  the  traveller,  dazed  and  exhausted  by  the 
turmoil  of  his  arrival,  comes  to  himself  he  finds  that  he 
is  seated  in  a  florid  coffee-room  on  an  Austrian  bent¬ 
wood  chair.  He  has  hung  his  cloak  over  a  Japanese 
screen  ;  he  is  ministered  to  by  a  German  waiter,  the 
while  his  eye  is  engaged  by  a  picture  on  the  wall 
representing  the  execution  of  Charles  I.  Amid  such 
surroundings  the  truth  comes  upon  him  that  he  has 
reached  at  last  the  city  of  the  Great  King. 


IV 

THE  CITY  OF  SORROWS 

Of  the  Jerusalem  of  to-day  it  may  be  said  that  ‘  the 
city  lieth  foursquare  '  as  did  that  city  of  pure  gold  whose 
light  was  like  unto  a  jasper  stone,  clear  as  crystal.  As 
already  noted,  there  is  still  about  the  city  '  a  wall  great 
and  high,'  but  it  dates  only  from  the  sixteenth  century. 
It  rises  from  up  the  rock  to  the  height  of  some  thirty- 
eight  feet  and  is  made  magnificent  by  thirty-four  towers 
and  by  eight  gates.  The  city  is  of  no  unusual  size,  since 
it  describes  a  circuit  of  less  than  two  and  a  half  miles, 
while  an  ingenious  writer  has  pointed  out  that  ‘  it  would 
hardly  occupy  the  space  included  between  Oxford  Street 
and  Piccadilly  on  the  north  and  south,  and  Park  Lane 
and  Bond  Street  on  the  east  and  west.'  ^  It  has  a 
population  of  about  60,000  and  may  therefore  be  com¬ 
pared  in  extent  to  such  places  as  Reading  or  York. 

The  haughty  isolation  of  the  city  on  a  pedestal  of 
gaunt  limestone  is  marred  by  the  growth  of  modern 
suburbs  without  the  walls,  especially  on  the  side  which 
lies  to  the  north-west.  These  suburbs  —  composed 
largely  of  churches,  convents,  hospices,  and  villas — are 

^  Cook’s  Handbook  for  Palestine,  p.  69.  (London.  1911.) 

42 


THE  CITY  OF  SORROWS 


43 


glaring  and  ugly.  The  buildings,  moreover,  are  home¬ 
less-looking  and  huddle  near  to  the  city  like  shivering 
outcasts.  They  conform  to  the  Clapham-Cannes  style 
of  architecture,  and  the  result  breeds  melancholy. 
David  once  described  Mount  Zion  as  '  beautiful  for 
situation,'  and  the  pedlar  in  building  lots  probably 
still  urges  this  attraction  for  his  ‘  eligible  sites,'  but  the 
beauty  of  the  old  days  has  long  vanished. 

In  general  terms  it  may  be  noted  that  Jerusalem  is 
built  upon  two  nearly  parallel  hills,  one  lying  to  the  west 
and  one  to  the  east.  Between  them  is  a  glen — the 
Tyropoeon  Valley — which  runs  north  and  south  from 
the  Damascus  gate  to  the  Pool  of  Siloam.  This  valley 
is  now  nearly  obliterated,  being  filled  to  the  depth  of 
some  seventy  feet  with  the  debris  and  ruins  of  centuries. 

On  the  northern  end  of  the  eastern  hill — on  that  part 
known  as  Mount  Moriah — stood  Solomon's  Temple. 
A  little  south  of  the  temple  and  on  a  lower  level  was  the 
great  palace,  while  on  the  south  end  of  the  hill  (on  the 
area  now  called  Ophel)  rose  the  Jebusite  stronghold 
captured  by  David.  It  will  be  remembered  that  in  due 
course  ‘  David  dwelt  in  the  fort,  and  called  it  the  city 
of  David.'  Thus  it  is  that  at  the  present  time  it  is  very 
generally  allowed  that  Ophel  [indicates  the  site  of  Mount 
Zion  and  the  city  of  the  Great  King. 

The  western  hill  was  occupied  by  the  less  ancient  town 
of  Jerusalem. 

To  the  east  of  the  two  hills  runs  the  valley  of  the 
Kedron,  and  on  their  western  side  ‘  the  valley  of  Hin- 
nom,  which  is  at  the  end  of  the  valley  of  the  giants.' 

Two  streets  starting  respectively  from  the  Jaffa 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


44 

Gate  and  the  Damascus  Gate  intersect  near  the  centre 
of  the  town  and  thus  divide  Jerusalem  into  four  quarters, 
viz.  :  the  quarters  of  the  Mohammedans,  the  Christians, 
the  Armenians,  and  the  Jews. 

When  Abd-Khiba  wrote  a  letter  from  Urusalem  to 
Amenophis  IV,  King  of  Egypt,  about  three  thousand 
four  hundred  years  ago,  neither  he  nor  the  Egyptian 
could  have  dreamed  of  the  astounding  and  yet  lament¬ 
able  fortunes  which  were  in  store  for  the  city.  The 
letter  remains,  but  of  the  place  from  which  it  was  dis¬ 
patched  not  a  stone  survives. 

The  history  of  the  Holy  City  has  been  many  times 
written  and  needs  not  to  be  again  produced.  Suffice 
it  to  say  that  the  annals  are  the  annals  of  a  tragic  town 
whose  records  are  now  of  triumphant  splendour  and  now 
of  the  dumbest  misery.  The  voice  of  the  city  has  been 
at  one  time  as  the  blast  of  a  trumpet  and  at  another  as 
the  sob  of  the  dying.  For  the  most  part,  through  many 
a  sombre  century,  it  has  been  the  voice  of  lamentation 
and  unhappiness. 

Jerusalem  has  been  from  almost  the  dawn  of  its  days 
the  City  of  Sorrows,  the  city  of  '  the  land  of  trouble  and 
anguish.' 

It  was  ever  doomed  to  misfortune,  ever  marked  out 
for  vengeance  and  punishment,  and  ever  shadowed  by 
recurring  ruin.  The  writers  of  sacred  books  were  never 
weary  of  denouncing  the  city  nor  of  prophesying  its 
downfall.  They  employed  an  exhaustless  imagery  to 
describe  its  vileness,  they  shrieked  against  its  iniquities 
and  abominations,  they  broke  out  into  rhapsodies  upon 
its  coming  sufferings,  and  foretold  for  the  place  every 


THE  CITY  OF  SORROWS 


45 

possible  ill  that  could  afflict  the  most  hapless  habitation 
of  man. 

‘  Jerusalem  shall  become  heaps  "  the  writing  ran  ; 
‘  there  shall  not  be  left  one  stone  upon  another  that 
shaU  not  be  thrown  down  ' :  and  the  prophecy  has  come 
true.  The  misery  of  the  city  has  been  abject  and  com¬ 
plete.  No  invention  of  malice,  no  subterfuge  of  revenge, 
could  add  to  its  woes.  For  century  after  century  the 
cry  from  the  watch-tower  on  the  city  wall  has  been  ever 
the  same :  ‘  Is  it  nothing  to  you,  all  ye  that  pass  by  ? 
behold,  and  see  if  there  be  any  sorrow  like  unto  my 
sorrow.' 

Jerusalem  in  the  course  of  its  history  was  besieged 
and  destroyed  by  the  Philistines  and  the  Arabs,  by  the 
Persians  and  the  Parthians,  by  the  Kings  of  Egypt  and 
the  Kings  of  Assyria,  by  the  Romans,  by  the  Crusaders, 
and  by  the  Moslems.  Twice  was  its  destruction  so 
complete  that  it  remained  for  periods  of  some  sixty 
years  a  tumbled  ruin,  uninhabited  and  forgotten.  Twice 
indeed  did  '  the  city  sit  solitary  that  was  full  of  people,' 
while  only  the  howl  of  the  wild  beast  broke  the  silence 
of  the  deserted  streets. 

It  has  been  consumed  by  fire,  rent  by  earthquake, 
and  decimated  by  pestilence.  Its  people  have  been 
swept  off  in  one  sudden  day  by  a  blast  of  murder,  and 
have  rotted  through  long  sickly  weeks  from  drought 
and  famine.  It  has  been  an  arena  for  the  display  of 
the  vilest  passions  that  have  possessed  the  human  race, 
and  the  scene  of  at  once  the  most  glorious  and  the  most 
degrading  demonstrations  of  religion  that  the  world 
has  witnessed. 


46 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


The  old  Jerusalem  lies  buried  deep  beneath  the  ruins 
of  centuries.  Dust  and  stones  have  obliterated  the 
scenes  of  its  past  history.  The  ancient  glories  have 
been  swept  away ;  the  scenes  and  scars  of  bygone 
miseries  are  hidden  out  of  sight. 

In  the  telling  of  its  story  the  voice  of  the  city  is 
faint  almost  to  nothingness,  for  that  which  was  said  is 
true :  '  Thy  speech  shall  whisper  out  of  the  dust.' 


V 

WITHIN  THE  WALLS 

There  are  no  streets  in  Jerusalem — that  is  to  say, 
there  are  no  open  roadways  within  the  walls  along  which 
even  the  humblest  carriage  could  make  its  way.  The 
noise  of  wheels,  therefore,  is  never  to  be  heard  within 
the  Holy  City.  In  the  place  of  streets  is  a  maze  of  lanes, 
and  those  who  would  traverse  the  same  must  do  so  on 
foot  or  seated  on  a  donkey.  The  ass  serves  to  keep  one's 
feet  out  of  the  sour  black  filth  with  which  the  Golden 
City  is  paved  during  both  ‘  the  former  '  and  '  the  latter  ' 
rains  as  well  as  during  any  intermediate  rains^  There 
are  difficulties,  however,  about  the  donkey,  for  the  animal 
has  his  own  views  as  to  the  way  he  should  go,  and  de¬ 
clines  to  accept  hints.  As  the  beast,  in  forcing  his  path 
through  the  crowd,  is  no  regarder  of  persons,  the  rider's 
progress  is  attended  by  a  blizzard  of  abuse,  unless  he 
can  announce  his  coming  in  the  native  tongue. 

Riding  of  this  kind  also  can  hardly  be  classed  as 
exercise  in  the  open  air,  since  it  involves  movement 
through  a  more  or  less  solid  medium.  The  traveller 
never  sees  the  road  ;  he  is  pushing  through  a  living 

thicket :  his  face  is  brushed  by  the  hairy  chest  of  a 

47 


48 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


camel ;  his  foot,  caught  in  the  cloak  of  a  hurrying 
Bedouin,  is  turned  so  violently  round  as  to  point  back¬ 
wards  ;  his  leg  is  made  wet  by  a  mass  of  bleeding  meat 
carried  by  a  butcher  ;  his  back  is  whitened  by  a  sack  of 
flour  ;  people  lean  against  him  and  his  donkey  as  they 
would  against  a  wall ;  they  push  him  aside  with  their 
hands  as  if  he  were  a  stiff-hinged  gate  ;  camels  essay  to 
walk  through  him,  and  at  the  end  he  feels  that  he  is  as 
clay  that  is  rolled  between  the  palms  of  the  potter.  The 
conclusion  of  the  whole  matter  is  that  in  Zion  it  is  better 
to  walk  than  to  ride. 

The  whole  of  Jerusalem  within  the  walls  is  made  up 
of  a  tangle  of  lanes  and  byways  of  infinite  and  alarming 
complexity.  If  the  modern  city  be  likened  to  a  formal 
garden,  then  this  city  is  a  jungle  full  of  disquieting 
shadows  and  will-o’-the-wisps  of  strange  light.  The 
traveller  wanders  to  and  fro  expecting  every  moment 
to  find  himself  in  an  honest  roadway  open  to  the  sky, 
but  such  a  fair  street  he  will  never  find.  Jerusalem 
appears  to  be  composed  wholly  of  intriguing,  bewilder¬ 
ing  slums.  Let  the  curious  turn  aside  but  a  few  paces 
from  a  known  path  and  he  may  be  lost  for  hours.  This 
is  one  of  the  most  impressive  and  memory-haunting 
things  in  the  sorrowful  city — this  human  labyrinth, 
devilish  in  its  ingenuity,  baffling  by  its  maniacal  aim¬ 
lessness,  mocking  in  its  elfish  trickery. 

The  ways  of  Jerusalem  are  narrow,  are  for  the  most 
part  paved,  are  inconsequent,  and  full  of  the  unexpected. 
Certain  lanes  are  made  up  of  wide  stone  steps  that  descend 
into  a  valley  of  dirtiness  and  then  mount  up  on  the 
opposite  side.  Other  causeways  are  between  high  blank 


WITHIN  THE  WALLS 


49 


walls,  like  the  passages  in  a  fortress.  These  walls, 
originally  grey  in  colour,  are  shaded  with  every  tone  of 
uncleanness,  are  made  blue  in  parts  by  mildew,  or  show 
patches  of  delightful  green  where  weeds  or  tufts  of  grass 
are  growing  in  the  crannies. 

The  houses  are  all  of  sullied  stone  and  few  are  of  the 
same  shape.  Some  appear  to  have  a  door  but  no  win¬ 
dows  ;  others  would  seem  to  have  only  windows  and  to 
be  entered  by  some  invisible  portal.  There  are  arched 
passages  with  possibly  a  grilled  peep-hole  in  the  black 
of  the  arch  and  the  glimmer  of  a  lamp  behind  the  bars. 
There  are  long  vaulted  ways,  grimy  as  railway  tunnels, 
lit  by  holes  in  the  roof  through  which  a  ray  of  sun  may 
occasionally  be  shot.  There  are  tunnels,  too,  that  pass 
under  houses,  the  door  of  the  house  being  hidden  in 
the  darkest  shadow  of  the  passage.  In  the  open  lanes 
are  windows  far  up  on  the  walls  that  project  over 
the  causeway  and  are  elaborately  screened.  There  are 
pretentious  windows  of  stone  also  supported  on  stone 
corbels,  as  well  as  windows  with  little  crumpled  bal¬ 
conies  hanging  to  them  which  may  be  full  of  flowers. 
One  comes  upon  fragments  of  old  walls,  upon  ash-white 
ruins,  upon  ancient  stone  fountains,  upon  cavern-like 
cellars  the  mouldy  breath  of  whose  mouths  fills  the  lane 
with  the  chill  of  death.  ^ 

There  are,  moreover,  mysterious  narrow  stairs  that 
turn  furtively  out  of  sight  between  suspicious  walls.  Up 
one  such  forbidding  stair  a  man,  in  a  long  dull  robe,  was 
making  his  way.  His  head  was  hidden  in  a  hood  and 
he  carried  a  staff  in  his  hand.  He  might  have  been  the 
impenitent  thief,  who  died  at  Golgotha,  slinking  home. 


50 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


At  high' noon  when  the  sun  is  clear,  the  by-ways  of 
the  city  are  slashed  with  intense  shadows  and  intense 
lights.  At  the  end  of  a  vaulted  passage,  black  as  the 
pit,  may  be  a  white  courtyard  dazzling  almost  to 
blindness.  On  many  a  grimy  path  are  pools  of  sun 
as  brilliant  as  spilt  quicksilver,  while  in  the  abysmal 
tunnels  a  ray  of  light  coming  through  a  crack  in  the 
roof  looks  like  a  tie-rod  of  white-hot  metal. 

The  lanes  of  the  residential  quarters  are  for  the  most 
part  silent  and  little  occupied.  The  few  passers-by  move 
slowly  and  affect  a  meditative  or  depressed  bearing. 
Children  are  not  much  in  evidence,  and  such  as  are  met 
with  appear  tired  and  listless.  It  is  evident  that  the 
day  has  not  yet  come  when  '  the  streets  of  the  city  shall 
be  full  of  boys  and  girls  playing  in  the  streets  thereof.' 

In  the  business  quarters,  in  the  lanes  of  shops,  there 
is  ever,  on  the  other  hand,  a  restless  and  congested 
crowd.  The  shops  are  the  shops  of  the  East,  mere 
square  gaps  in  a  wall  filled  with  disordered  merchan¬ 
dise  which,  spread  out  mostly  on  the  floor  or  dangling 
from  the  walls,  fills  the  dull  way  with  that  infinite 
variety  of  tint  and  colour,  of  perfume  and  stench,  which 
is  characteristic  of  the  oriental  bazaar.  The  shops  are 
equipped  with  ancient  weatherworn  shutters  of  archaic 
type,  hanging  at  various  angles  from  their  hinges.  As 
I  did  not  see  a  single  new  shop  shutter  throughout  the 
whole  of  Jerusalem  I  conclude  that  this  article,  like 
certain  wine,  must  attain  to  age  before  it  can  be  of 
service.  Some  of  the  shutters  are  so  venerable  and 
infinitely  patched  that  it  would  be  more  easy  to 
believe  that  they  belonged  to  the  actual  City  of  David 


THE  GOLDEN  GATE,  JERUSALEM  :  FROM  THE  INSIDE  A  STREET  IN  JERUSALEM 


I 


WITHIN  THE  WALLS  51 

than  to  accept  the  relics  which  are  seriously  accredited 
to  the  time  of  that  monarch. 

Above  each  shop  front  is  a  little  wooden  sill  or 
weatherboard  to  keep  off  the  sun  and  the  rain.  To  assist 
these  ends  the  board  is  supplemented  by  miscellaneous 
bits  of  canvas,  flaps  of  cloth,  and  dangling  rags.  It 
thus  happens  that  on  a  rainy  day  no  place  drips  like  the 
bazaar  in  Jerusalem.  The  water  streams  off  each  eave 
in  a  thousand  threads,  like  the  down-coming  strands  in 
the  warp  of  a  loom,  and  trickles  from  a  million  points 
of  frayed  rag  as  from  the  leaves  of  a  drenched  tree.  The 
mud  of  the  flags  is  splashed  upwards  as  the  jets  strike 
the  stones,  so  that  the  wayfarer  when  caught  in  a  shower 
can  only  escape  a  complete  soaking  by  keeping  well  in 
the  rain.  So  long  as  he  keeps  in  the  mere  rain  he  is 
comparatively  dry,  but  when  he  is  out  of  it  he  is  under  a 
cascade  of  yellow  and  penetrating  water  which  is  derived 
from  the  concentrated  shop  roofs  of  Jerusalem. 

The  crowd  in  the  bazaar  is  miscellaneous  and  more 
mixed  probably  than  any  crowd  in  the  world.  Con¬ 
spicuous  is  the  Jew  who  should  be — although  he  is  not — 
the  rightful  inhabitant  of  Jerusalem.  He  is  known  by 
his  broad-brimmed  felt  hat,  by  his  cap  trimmed  with 
fur,  by  his  dressing-gown-like  robe,  by  his  coat  of  tawdry 
plush,  and  by  his  peculiar  side-locks  of  hair.  These 
greasy  love- locks,  which  may  become  a  youthful  Jew 
of  seventeen,  look  very  eerie  in  an  ancient  man. 

Most  of  these  Jews  appear  to  be  very  poor  ;  a  curi¬ 
ously  large  proportion  of  them  is  very  old,  while  there 
are  few  who  are  not  abject-looking  or  whose  faces  are 
not  tinged  by  a  sallow  melancholy.  They  are  miserable 


52 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


representatives  of  those  fierce,  sturdy,  hard-fighting 
Hebrews  who  cut  their  way  into  this  mountain  fastness 
and  held  for  so  long  the  stronghold  of  Zion. 

Conspicuous  also  is  the  Greek  priest,  robed  in  black, 
with  long  hair  like  a  woman,  the  effeminate  locks  being 
surmounted  by  a  ridiculous  saucepan-shaped  hat. 
Many  are  of  priestly  bearing,  but  others  are  so 
unintelligent-looking  and  so  brutish  in  feature  as  to 
afford  the  most  unpleasant  type  of  man  to  be  found  in 
Jerusalem. 

As  an  agreeable  contrast  to  these  unwholesome  cell- 
bred  manikins  is  the  Bedouin  with  his  keen  eye,  his 
well-squared  shoulders,  his  sunburnt  limbs,  and  his 
splendid  carriage.  He  wears  a  coloured  cloth  over  his 
head  bound  with  a  cord  made  of  black  wool  or  of 
camel's  hair.  His  robe  may  be  tattered  and  patched, 
his  shoes  may  be  mere  flaps  of  dirty  leather,  but  he 
is  in  every  step  of  his  stride  a  strong  man,  free  and 
self-reliant. 

Moslems  with  white  turbans  and  dark  robes  form 
the  most  picturesque  element  in  the  bazaar  crowd. 
Some  are  so  grave  and  shrewd  of  countenance  that  they 
may  be  learned  professors  from  a  forgotten  university. 
Others  look  like  necromancers  and  only  need  the  crucible, 
the  alembic,  and  the  strange-shaped  bottles  to  start  the 
distilling  of  the  elixir  of  life.  Some  are  like  little  goblin 
merchants,  ^  that  peep  and  that  mutter  '  as  they  dart 
about  the  streets  in  search  of  bargains. 

In  the  crowd,  too,  are  veiled  women  in  black  who 
would  seem  to  be  items  detached  from  a  funeral  pageant, 
as  well  as  bent  old  crones  who,  upon  the  addition  of  a 


WITHIN  THE  WALLS 


53 

conical  hat,  a  red  cloak>  and  a  cat,  would  turn  at  once 
into  witches. 

There  are,  moreover,  mixed  up  with  the  camels,  the 
sheep  and  the  donkeys,  Turkish  soldiers,  gilded  officials, 
negroes,  dervishes,  yellow-skinned,  almond-eyed  Mon¬ 
golians,  crafty-looking  Greeks,  Syrians  with  tarboushes 
on  their  heads  and  the  clothes  of  the  Hackney  bank- 
holiday  maker  on  their  bodies,  heavily  clad  Russians, 
tourists  with  field-glasses,  cameras,  and  guide-books, 
solemn  lank-haired  pilgrims  from  the  frontiers  of  India 
who  have  drifted  here  from  Mecca.  Last  of  all  the 
visitor  may  meet — as  I  did — a  small  Sudanese  boy  who, 
in  spite  of  the  cold,  was  naked  but  for  a  rag,  and  who, 
perched  on  the  extreme  end  of  a  donkey,  was  grinning 
with  exquisite  delight.  He  was  the  sole  embodiment 
in  the  crowd  of  the  happy  state  '  of  having  nothing  and 
yet  possessing  all  things.' 

That  by-way  in  Jerusalem  which  is  the  best  known, 
and  to  which  the  traveller  will  turn  with  the  greatest 
expectancy,  is  the  Via  Dolorosa,  the  Path  of  Pain,  along 
which  Christ  is  supposed  to  have  walked  in  His  weary 
progress  from  the  judgment  hall  to  the  place  of  cruci¬ 
fixion.  Did  such  a  lane  exist  among  the  mazes  of  the 
city  it  would  indeed  be  the  most  dolorous  and  the  most 
sacred  footway  in  the  world. 

The  Via  Dolorosa  which  pilgrims  come  thousands  of 
miles  to  see  is  a  quite  modern  lane.  For  some  distance 
it  is  a  paved  passage  between  blank  walls  ;  it  then 
changes  to  a  mean  street,  and  at  last  ends  ignobly  in  the 
bazaar  in  a  vaulted  passage  fuU  of  noisome  shops. 
Along  this  dirty  and  callous  street  the  Stations  of  the 


54 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


Cross  are  marked  by  inscribed  stones  let  into  the  walls 
or  by  other  insignia.  Here,  for  example,  is  indicated 
the  exact  spot  where  the  cross  was  laid  upon  Jesus. 
Here  is  the  place  where  He  sank  under  the  weight 
of  His  burden.  Here  is  the  point  in  the  lane  where 
He  met  His  mother,  and  a  little  farther  on  is  the  spot 
where  Veronica  wiped  the  sweat  from  His  brow. 
A  picturesque  medieval  house,  projecting  over  the 
street,  is  pointed  out  as  the  house  of  the  rich  man 
Dives,  while  near  the  fifth  station  there  is — built  into 
the  wall — a  stone  which  has  a  hollow  in  it  caused  by 
the  pressure  of  the  hand  of  Christ. 

The  Via  Dolorosa  is  a  mere  fiction  of  the  Christian 
Church,  a  lane  of  lies,  a  path  of  fraud.  The  present 
road  does  not  appear  to  have  come  into  existence  until 
the  sixteenth  century,  and,  according  to  Dr.  Sanday, 
‘  its  course  has  been  frequently  changed.'  ^  It  is  a 
great  commercial  asset,  however,  so  it  can  be  understood 
that  when  next  its  direction  is  modified  there  will  be 
keen  competition  to  turn  it  to  individual  advantage. 

The  magnitude  of  the  deception  can  be  realised  if  it 
be  remembered  that  the  site  of  Calvary  is  not  known, 
that  some  forty  years  after  the  crucifixion  of  Christ 
Jerusalem  was  so  utterly  destroyed  by  Titus  as  to  be 
left  '  a  mass  of  scarcely  distinguishable  ruins,'  that  it 
remained  a  mere  heap  of  stones  for  some  sixty  years, 
when  the  Emperor  Hadrian  built  upon  the  waste  a  Roman 
city  and  made  of  Jerusalem  a  purely  heathen  colony, 
and  that  it  was  not  until  some  three  hundred  years  after 
the  death  of  Christ,  when  every  trace  of  the  city  of  His 

^  Sacred  Sites  of  the  Gospels,  p.  55,  by  W.  Sanday,  D.D.  (Oxford.  1903.) 


WITHIN  THE  WALLS 


55 


time  had  been  obliterated,  that  any  attempt  was  made 
to  discover  the  so-called  sacred  sites.  In  the  mean¬ 
time  the  valley  crossed  by  the  reputed  Via  Dolorosa 
had  been  buried  beneath  the  debris  of  centuries  to  the 
depth  of  some  sixty  feet.  Dean  Stanley  speaks  of  the 
constant  satisfaction  he  derived  from  the  thought  ^  that 
the  old  city  itself  lies  buried  twenty,  thirty,  forty  feet 
below  these  wretched  shops  and  receptacles  for  Anglo- 
Oriental  conveniences.'  i 

The  heartless  cruelty  of  the  deception  can  be  judged 
by  watching  the  conduct  of  a  devout  body  of  poor 
Russian  pilgrims  who,  after  a  lifetime  of  thrift,  have 
been  able  to  save  enough  money  to  make  the  journey 
to  Jerusalem.  Their  sincerity  is  beyond  doubt,  their 
trust  is  that  of  a  child,  their  faith  is  pathetic  and  un¬ 
questioning.  Tears  stream  down  their  faces  as  they 
walk  along  the  Path  of  Pain,  wrung  by  the  belief  that 
they  are  actually  treading  in  the  footsteps  of  Christ. 
At  each  ‘  station  '  they  kneel  and  pray ;  they  kiss  the 
wall,  or,  falling  down  in  the  dirt,  kiss  the  filth  of  the 
road. 

It  may  be  held  that  this  outpouring  of  religious 
fervour,  this  profound,  worshipful  homage,  this  ecstasy 
of  devotion  is  not  lessened  in  worth  by  the  chicanery 
and  falsehood  with  which  it  is  surrounded;  but  the 
argument  is  unavailing. 

There  is  consolation,  however,  in  the  thought  that 
somewhere  in  Jerusalem,  buried  fathoms  deep  beneath 
dust  and  stone,  there  lies  in  supreme  peace  the  ineffable 
path  actually  trodden  by  the  feet  of  Christ,  and  that 

^  Sinai  and  Palestine,  p.  167.  (London,  1881,) 


56 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


‘  none  shall  pass  through  it  for  ever  and  ever/  It  lies 
hidden  from  the  eyes  of  the  mumming  priest  and  is  safe 
for  ever  from  that  tawdry  oblation  of  gilt  image  and 
brazen  lamp  which  marks  the  Church's  appreciation 
of  a  sacred  place. 


VI 


THE  CULT  OF  THE  BEGGAR 

It  is  in  Jerusalem  of  all  cities  of  the  world  that  begging 
reaches  to  its  highest  development  as  an  art  and  craft. 
There  has  been  a  school  of  begging  at  this  city  for  some 
fifteen  hundred  years.  For  fifteen  centuries  devout 
pilgrims  have  been  making  their  way  to  Jerusalem, 
with  more  or  less  travail,  from  every  part  of  the  earth. 
They  have  come  for  the  good  of  their  souls.  They  have 
come  to  do  penance  for  their  sins.  They  have  come  in  the 
hope  of  attaining  more  assuredly  to  eternal  peace.  The 
pilgrimage  has  been  one  profound  act  of  self-sacrifice, 
one  intense  self-torturing  outburst  of  religious  fervour. 
When  the  devout  man  reaches  the  sacred  spot  what  can 
he  do  ?  He  can  throw  himself  upon  the  ground,  he  can 
pray,  he  can  either  in  fact  or  by  metaphor  rend  his  clothes 
and  put  dust  and  ashes  upon  his  head,  he  can  light 
candles,  he  can  bestow  money  upon  the  ever-grasping 
church,  and  he  can  give  alms  to  the  poor.  The  last  act  is 
so  open,  so  obvious,  so  immediately  gratifying,  that  it 
must  prove  to  be  a  conspicuous  detail  in  the  devotee’s 
ritual. 

Beggars,  therefore,  have  been  from  early  days  as 

57 


58 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


necessary  in  Jerusalem  as  the  altar,  the  relic,  and  the 
cloud  of  incense.  Besides  the  great  army  of  the  really 
devout  there  are  the  would-be  devout,  the  temporarily 
devout,  and  the  merely  curious.  These  latter  also  give 
alms — not  for  the  good  of  their  souls  or  the  comfort  of 
the  mendicant,  but  because  almsgiving  is  a  part  of  the 
life  of  the  place,  a  feature  of  the  visit,  a  ‘  thing  to  do.' 

The  beggars  of  Jerusalem  have  had  to  deal  with  a 
miscellaneous  host  of  people,  countless  as  the  sands  of  the 
seashore,  who  speak  in  unknown  tongues,  and  to  whom 
petition  by  mere  word  of  mouth  would  be  ineffectual. 
The  mendicants,  therefore,  have  had  to  appeal  to  the 
sympathy  of  the  visitor  by  means  of  gesture,  by  dramatic 
miming,  by  pose,  and  by  subtle  suggestion. 

The  art  of  begging  does  not  consist  of  mere  whining 
and  snivelling,  nor  of  the  mere  bald  display  of  bodily 
affliction.  The  woman  who  in  the  streets  of  London 
shuffles  after  a  ruddy  citizen  with  a  box  of  matches  in 
her  hand,  and  the  piping  drawl,  ‘  Kind  gentleman,  gimme 
a  penny  to  buy  bread,'  is  no  artist.  She  is  a  mere 
untutored  creature  of  convention  who  would  starve 
in  Jerusalem  in  a  week.  Her  method  is  too  crude, 
her  whine  is  artificial  and  stereotyped  by  custom  ;  it 
expresses  neither  supplication  nor  suffering,  but  merely 
conforms  to  the  current  conception  of  the  mode  of  address 
proper  for  beggars.  It  is  so  far  removed  from  pathos  as  to 
be  on  the  border  of  the  ridiculous.  In  England  a  blind 
man,  wrapped  in  a  thick  coat  and  comforter,  will  stand 
against  a  wintry  wall  with  the  neat  inscription  '  Blind ' 
on  his  chest,  and  with  a  dog  before  him  covered  by  a 
little  rug.  The  dog  has  a  tin  attached  to  his  neck  for 


THE  CULT  OF  THE  BEGGAR 


59 


alms.  The  man^s  eyes  are  closed  and  so  are  the  dog’s. 
The  man  does  not  even  hold  out  his  hand,  but  repeats 
from  time  to  time,  in  a  nerveless  monotone,  the  phrase 
‘  Pity  the  poor  blind,’  while  he  rocks  alternately  from 
one  foot  to  the  other  to  keep  himself  warm.  People  give 
him  money  mechanically,  in  response  to  a  congenitally 
acquired  habit — not  because  he  is  blind  but  because  he 
seems  bored,  or  more  often  still  because  his  dog  seems 
bored  and  the  chink  of  a  coin  in  his  tin  wakes  him  up. 

Now  in  Jerusalem  the  begging  of  the  blind  is  a 
dramatic  act,  a  human  tragedy  in  one  vivid  pose.  Out 
of  a  damp  shadow  in  a  lane  there  darts  a  haggard  youth, 
pale  as  a  nun,  emaciated  as  a  mummy,  with  wild  hair 
and  outstretched  bony  arms.  His  eyelids  are  staring 
open,  showing  two  opaque  eyeballs  which  are  like  knobs 
of  white  chalk.  He  is  blind  as  a  statue  is  blind.  He  is 
nearly  naked.  He  turns  towards  you  a  face  distorted 
with  expectancy,  as  if  it  were  you  and  you  alone  who 
could  restore  his  sight.  He  seems  as  if  he  had  been 
waiting  for  you  in  the  lane  for  years.  He  is  led  by 
a  cachectic  girl,  a  mere  thing  of  rags,  whose  lined 
face  is  luminous  with  excitement  and  hope.  There  is 
no  whining  for  money,  no  banal  platitude  about  ‘  the 
poor  blind.’  She  whispers  to  herself  '  Help  is  at  hand,’ 
and  points  first  to  the  youth’s  dead  eyes  and  then  to 
the  sun.  No  one  could  pass  this  boy  and  girl  unheeded. 
The  onlooker  feels  that  he  is  one  of  the  dramatis 
personae,  and  that  without  him  in  the  act  of  giving 
alms  the  group  of  living  statuary  is  incomplete. 

I  recall  also  a  blind  woman  by  the  roadside,  near  to 
St.  Stephen’s  Gate.  She  was  young  and  not  uncomely. 


6o 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


She  sat  in  the  dust  with  her  hands  dropped  listlessly  in 
her  lap  like  the  hands  of  the  dead.  She  uttered  no  sound, 
she  held  out  no  tin  mug.  The  sun  falling  on  her  shapely 
head  threw  her  empty  eye  sockets  into  deep  shadows. 
She  merely  rocked  her  body  to  and  fro,  a  picture  of 
utter  loneliness  and  intolerable  misery,  a  conception  of 
the  outcast  who  had  lost  all  hope  and  had  long  ceased  to 
look  for  help.  This  was  not  mere  area  gate,  suburban 
begging,  it  was  a  display  of  art.  I  watched  her  for  some 
time.  She  did  well  and  earned  more  in  an  hour  than  the 
conventional  pavement-tapping  blind  man  would  have 
earned  in  Jerusalem  in  a  week. 

The  most  dreadful  spectacle  in  connection  with  the 
blind  was  in  the  vaults  of  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepul¬ 
chre.  Among  the  foundations  of  that  building  is  a 
dark  cavern.  It  is  reached  by  rough  steps  cut  in  the 
rock.  They  are  steep  and  drop  out  of  sight  into  the 
gloom.  The  cave  is  converted  into  a  rude  chapel,  called 
the  Chapel  of  the  Invention.  When  we  visited  the  place 
a  faint  light  fell  upon  the  first  three  steps,  and  on  each 
step  a  hooded  figure  was  crouching  with  its  back 
to  the  wall.  The  three  were  alike.  They  appeared  to 
be  men  and  to  be  very  old.  They  were  dressed  each  in 
a  gown  of  sackcloth,  the  hood  of  the  gown  being  pointed 
like  the  corner  of  a  sack.  When  they  turned  their  faces 
towards  the  light  it  could  be  seen  that  all  were  blind. 
They  seemed  to  belong  to  the  underworld  and  to  have 
never  attained  nearer  to  the  open  air.  To  them  might 
have  been  applied  the  words  of  the  prophet  Micah  :  '  they 
shall  move  out  of  their  holes  like  worms  of  the  earth.’ 
They  muttered  something  that  the  dragoman  told  me 


STREET  IN  JERUSALEM 


THE  CULT  OF  THE  BEGGAR 


6i 


was  '  We  are  poor,  hungry,  and  blind/  There  was  some¬ 
thing  sinister  in  these  three  shrouded  figures  sitting  in  a 
row  like  ghouls  at  the  mouth  of  a  tomb.  Three  ravens 
perched  on  a  bough  in  a  charred  wood  could  not  have 
made  a  more  horrid  portent  of  disaster.  I  gave  the 
nearest  ghoul  money  in  order  to  rid  myself  of  the  awful 
incubus  imposed  by  their  presence.  It  was  a  relief, 
when  we  were  out  of  hearing,  to  see  the  three  grey  figures 
wrangling  over  the  coins,  snarling  and  spitting  like  cats 
and  grabbing  at  one  another  with  claw-like  hands. 

In  a  place  like  the  Holy  Land,  where  the  profession 
of  begging  is  so  highly  cultivated,  one  must  expect  to 
come  upon  amateurs  and  imitators  as  well  as  upon  actors 
of  feeble  attainment.  An  instance  of  the  incomplete 
beggar  was  afforded  us  in  the  streets  of  Bethlehem.  We 
there  encountered  a  plump,  jovial-looking  girl  of  ten  or 
twelve  whose  ruddy  cheeks  and  sturdy  limbs  betokened 
good  living.  As  we  approached  she  promptly  twisted 
her  features  into  what  was  intended  to  be  an  expression 
of  intense  misery.  As  her  face  was  naturally  merry  this 
attempt  to  depict  a  paroxysm  of  woe  was  exceedingly 
ludicrous,  and^when,  with  her  hands  clasped  as  in  prayer, 
she  whined,  '  My  little  sister  is  at  home  in  the  house 
crying  for  bread,’  we  could  only  burst  into  laughter. 
Now  some  time  previously  I  had  asked  a  resident  in 
Jerusalem  why  the  native  children  went  to  the  mission 
schools,  and  he  had  replied  cynically  that  they  went 
there  '  to  learn  enough  English  to  beg.’  This  girl  appeared 
to  provide  an  illustration  of  the  statement,  but  on  in¬ 
quiry  we  found  that  she  had  never  been  to  a  mission 
school ;  she  did  not  know  a  single  word  of  English 


62 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


beyond  those  embodied  in  her  distressful  speech,  and 
the  meaning  of  the  sentence  itself  she  had  forgotten. 
As  a  beggar  she  was  a  failure.  Her  stock-in-trade  was 
too  small ;  her  repertoire  too  limited.  The  episode, 
however,  afforded  her  consummate  amusement,  and 
whenever  the  dragoman  inquired,  in  Arabic,  after  the 
sister  who  was  shrieking  for  bread  she  became  convulsed 
with  laughter.  She  was  given  money,  for  although  she 
was  net  a  success  as  a  mendicant,  she  showed  some 
promise  as  a  humourist. 

The  cities  are  not  the  only  resorts  of  beggars.  The 
brotherhood  and  the  sisterhood  of  the  derelict  are  spread 
throughout  the  length  of  the  land.  Wherever  the 
tourist  goes  they  go.  They  never  lose  sight  of  him.  If 
he  mounts  up  to  a  hilltop  they  are  there.  If  he  descends 
into  the  bowels  of  the  earth  they  are  there  also.  As  the 
prophet  Jeremiah  writes  :  ‘  They  hunt  our  steps,  that  we 
cannot  go  in  our  streets  .  .  .  they  laid  wait  for  us  in  the 
wilderness.'  This  universal  demand  for  baksheesh,  from 
Dan  to  Bathsheba,  might  have  been  in  the  mind  of  that 
other  prophet  when  he  wrote  '  every  one  loveth  gifts, 
and  followeth  after  rewards.' 

The  beggars  in  the  country  and  about  the  outskirts 
of  towns  are  mere  tramps  and  footpads,  however,  when 
compared  with  the  finished  artist  who  is  to  be  found  in 
Jerusalem.  In  that  city  the  beggars  particularly  favour 
one  especial  lane.  It  is  the  one  that  leads  down  to  the 
Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  This  lane  is  the  very 
end  of  the  pilgrim’s  way,  the  end  of  the  road  to  which 
a  thousand  paths  converge  from  every  quarter  of  the 
world.  As  the  way  is  steep  it  is  cut  into  steps  and  paved. 


THE  CULT  OF  THE  BEGGAR 


63 


On  either  side  is  a  blank  wall.  On  the  steps  where  they 
touch  the  wall  the  beggars  lie,  huddled  close  together 
in  a  brown,  damp,  feebly  writhing  mass.  They  seem 
to  have  been  blown  into  the  gutter  and  to  have  become 
heaped  up  there  against  the  wall,  as  are  leaves  and  litter 
after  a  wind.  Some  are  lying  on  the  ground,  some  are 
sitting,  but  all  are  in  positions  of  extreme  unease.  They 
might  have  been  thrown  against  the  wall  by  the  force 
of  an  explosion  and  be  lying  there  with  bent  limbs  and 
broken  backs. 

They  seem  to  ooze  down  the  steps  in  a  thick  continu¬ 
ous  mass,  made  up  of  inharmonious  human  ingredients. 
Here  is  a  cinder-grey  hand  stretched  out.  All  the 
fingers  are  gone,  but  there  is  a  thumb  left  which  keeps 
moving  to  and  fro.  Spread  out  on  the  flags  are  para¬ 
lysed  limbs  looking  like  shrivelled  tree  branches,  although 
it  is  difficult  to  say  to  which  bundle  of  tatters  any 
two  belong.  Here  is  a  club  foot  dangling  over  a  stone. 
It  is  so  livid  with  the  cold  as  to  resemble  a  purple  root. 
Faintly  seen,  under  the  shade  of  a  cowl,  is  a  face  without 
a  nose  and  without  eyes.  Near  by  a  bony  knee  projects 
with  a  fungating  tumour  on  it  like  a  crushed  tomato. 
There  are  horrible  sores,  too,  effectively  displayed  as  if 
they  were  possessions  of  price.  Above  all  there  comes 
ever  from  this  medley  of  maimed  folk  a  low,  monotonous 
sound  as  dreary  as  the  moaning  of  the  winter  wind 
around  a  lonely  house. 

There  was  one  episode  associated  with  begging  in 
Jerusalem  which  impressed  me  more  than  any  other, 
and  which  I  can  even  now  not  recall  without  a  choking 
in  the  throat.  It  was  near  the  twelfth  hour  of  the  day — 


64 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


that  is,  about  sunset.  A  casual  dragoman  and  I  were 
plodding  along  a  street  in  Jerusalem  which  I  can  only 
remember  as  rendered  in  grey  and  made  miserable  by 
the  wet.  The  folk  of  the  town  were  hurrying  by  with 
bent  heads  and  that  callous  disregard  of  everything  but 
themselves  which  is  characteristic  of  people  in  a  driving 
rain. 

On  a  sudden  I  was  accosted  by  a  spectre  of  a  girl 
of  about  fourteen.  She  was  lean  and  pale  and  clad  in 
thin  black  clothes  which,  being  wet,  seemed  to  be  pasted 
on  her  body.  She  had  curious  silver-grey  eyes,  the  tint 
of  the  scales  of  a  fish.  She  held  out  her  hands  as  if  she 
would  grip  me  by  the  coat,  while  in  tones  of  intense 
eagerness  she  asked  :  '  Are  you  English  ?  ’  I  said  ‘  I  am.’ 
She  then  gasped  out  ‘  Oh  do  help  me  !  I  am  in  such 
trouble.  My  father  is  lying  dead  in  the  house  and  I  am 
all  alone.’  She  had  the  wild  look  of  a  maniac  ;  she 
seemed  distracted  with  grief  and  stupefied  with  misery. 
She  was  panting  with  haste  as  if  she  had  been  running 
to  and  fro  in  the  rain  to  find  some  one  who  understood 
her  language  and  to  whom  she  could  appeal  for  help. 
I  could  see  at  a  flash  the  dead  man  alone  in  a  mean 
room  empty  of  furniture  and  food  ;  I  could  see  the 
open  door,  the  wet  street.  My  profession  has  made 
me  familiar  with  tragic  moments,  but  I  remember  few 
more  dramatic  than  this.  The  girl’s  unnatural  voice 
made  one’s  flesh  creep.  Her  strange  grey  eyes  were 
terrible. 

I  said  I  would  come  with  her  at  once.  The  dragoman 
held  up  a  restraining  hand  and  smiled.  The  girl  had 
vanished.  I  asked  of  the  man,  '  Is  this  not  true  ?  ’  He 


THE  CULT  OF  THE  BEGGAR 


65 


replied,  ‘No.  She  recognised  me.  I  have  heard  this 
story  twenty  times.  She  is  the  finest  beggar  in  Jeru¬ 
salem.'  Indeed  she  was.  So  fine,  in  fact,  that  I  often 
wondered  if  her  hurrying  away  was  not  due  to  some 
tardiness  in  my  response,  there  being  not  a  moment 
for  her  to  lose. 

She  was  a  Greek,  I  was  told,  and  her  father  was  alive 
and  well.  Her  command  of  English  was  perfect.  Her 
command  of  emotional  expression  would  have  thrilled 
even  Euripides.  Never  has  the  art  of  begging  attained 
to  greater  finish  even  in  Jerusalem. 


F 


VII 

THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHRE 

The  goal  of  all  good  pilgrims  who  come  to  Jerusalem 
is  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  For  some  fifteen 
centuries  it  has  been  the  dream  of  the  lives  of  millions 
of  people  to  enter  the  door  of  this  church  and  to  seek 
in  its  holy  shadows  for  that  peace  which  passeth 
all  understanding.  It  is  every  year  the  dream  of 
thousands  still,  the  one  ambition  of  their  days,  to  see 
Jerusalem  before  they  die. 

It  is  claimed  that  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre 
contains  within  its  walls  the  actual  hillock  of  bare  ground 
that  was  stained  with  the  blood  of  Christ  and  that  it 
shows  still  the  mark  left  by  the  setting  up  of  the  cross. 
It  is  maintained,  moreover,  that  the  church  is  built 
upon  the  site  of  that  garden  where  was  a  tomb,  '  hewn 
out  in  the  rock,’  in  which  the  body  of  Christ  was  placed, 
and  that  this  tomb  stands  in  actual  existence  upon  the 
floor  of  the  building  to  this  day. 

This  claim  of  the  church  has  been  for  long  the  subject 

of  persistent  and  disquieting  controversy,  which  has  led 

to  no  other  result  than  to  make  it  evident  to  ordinary 

folk  that  the  exact  site  of  the  crucifixion  and  the  locality 

66 


THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHRE  67 


of  the  holy  sepulchre  are  unknown  and,  further,  that  they 
are  not  likely  ever  to  be  discovered.  As  has  already 
been  said  (page  54)  the  Jerusalem  of  old  was  practically 
obliterated  and  buried  in  ruins.  '  Zion,'  says  Micah, 
\  .  shall  be  plowed  as  a  field,  and  Jerusalem  shall 

become  heaps.'  The  foundations  of  the  ancient  walls  are 
in  some  places  one  hundred  and  thirty  feet  below  the 
present  surface.  It  was  not  until  some  three  centuries 
after  the  crucifixion  that  the  Emperor  Constantine  took 
steps  to  discover  the  holy  sites  among  the  acres  of  rubbish 
which  represented  the  old  city.  Those  whom  he  com¬ 
missioned  to  fulfil  this  duty  had  to  find  those  sites — and 
they  found  them.  They  had  also  to  hold  in  mind  the 
fact  that  the  site  discovered  must  of  necessity  be  a 
suitable  spot  for  the  building  of  a  church.  It  is  curious 
that  the  ground  on  which  the  present  church  stands 
was  already  occupied  by  a  temple  to  Venus,  built  by 
Hadrian  when  he  made  Jerusalem  a  Roman  city.  The 
true  cross  was  discovered  by  the  Empress  Helena  by 
means  of  a  dream,  and  its  identity  was  made  evident 
by  the  miraculous  powers  of  healing  which  it  was  found 
to  possess.  The  story,  when  read  in  the  light  of  the 
twentieth  century,  is  utterly  unconvincing. 

Moreover,  the  present  site  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  if 
genuine,  must  have  been  outside  the  so-called  '  second 
waU,’  that  wall,  indeed,  which  surrounded  the  city  in  the 
time  of  Christ.  Such  fragments  of  this  wall  as  have 
been  discovered  suggest  to  many  that  it  enclosed  the 
Holy  Sepulchre.  To  exclude  it  the  wall  must  be 
assumed  to  make  an  abrupt  and  remarkable  bend 
which  is  hard  to  explain  and  which  would  give  to 


68 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


this  ‘  second  wall '  a  general  direction  followed  by 
no  other  boundary,  new  or  old,  that  encompasses 
Jerusalem. 

Calvary,  moreover,  as  exposed  in  the  church,  is  of 
bare  rock,  and  in  this  rock  the  sockets  for  the  three 
crosses  have  been  cut — as  it  would  seem — with  no  mean 
labour  by  mason's  tools.  This  may  or  may  not  be  con¬ 
sistent  with  the  rough-and-ready  way  in  which  common 
thieves  and  disturbers  of  the  peace  were  put  to  death 
in  the  days  of  Herod. 

There  is  a  rival  site  to  the  present  one,  known  as 
the  Garden  Tomb  or  Gordon's  Calvary.  The  latter  title 
is  due  to  the  fact  that  the  claims  of  this  particular  place 
to  be  the  real  scene  of  the  crucifixion  were  favoured  by 
General  Gordon.  The  place,  which  is  ‘  nigh  to  the 
city '  and  close  to  the  Damascus  Gate,  is  one  of  the  few 
pretty  spots  in  the  suburbs  of  Jerusalem.  In  a  secluded 
and  unpretentious  garden  is  a  tomb  hewn  in  the  wall  of 
rock  which  forms  one  boundary  of  the  retreat.  Above 
the  garden  is  a  low  green  mound  which  is  claimed  to  be 
the  Golgotha  of  old  days.  Every  feature  of  the  place 
fits  in  with  the  Bible  narrative,  and  the  simple  little  spot 
enables  one  to  realise,  in  a  graphic  and  natural  manner, 
every  detail  which  that  narrative  lays  bare.  One  can 
picture  Mary  stooping  down  and  looking  into  the  sepul¬ 
chre  when  she  saw  the  ‘  two  angels  in  white  sitting,  the 
one  at  the  head,  and  the  other  at  the  feet,  where  the 
body  of  Jesus  had  lain.'  She  came,  with  ‘  the  other 
Mary,'  before  the  sun  was  up,  just  as  the  day  ‘  began 
to  dawn,'  and  it  can  be  understood  how,  in  the  uncertain 
light,  in  the  shadow  of  the  rock,  the  countenance  of  the 


THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHRE  69 


angel  would  be  luminous  ‘  like  lightning,  and  his  raiment 
white  as  snow/ 

Apart  from  this,  however,  there  is  not  the  slightest 
ground  upon  which  to  support  the  conclusion  that  this 
quiet  nook  outside  the  city  wall  represents  the  actual 
scene  of  the  great  world-moving  drama. 

It  may  be  surmised,  nevertheless,  that  should  later 
exploration  reveal  the  fact  that  the  ^  second  wall '  does 
indude  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  there  will 
be  a  rush  of  clergy  to  this  modest  spot,  and  after  those 
bitter  wranglings  which  have  ever  characterised  the 
Christian  Church  in  J  erusalem,  the  garden  will  be  covered 
with  marble  and  bricks,  altars  will  be  raised  under  a 
cathedral  dome,  and  the  tomb  will  be  decorated  with 
brass,  tinsel,  and  gilt,  and  lit  with  lamps.  The  so-calkd 
sacred  spot  will  be  robbed  of  every  cherished  feature, 
while  in  place  of  the  hushed,  bird-haunted  garden  and 
the  empty  grave  there  will  be  a  blatant  fabric,  com¬ 
parable  only  to  a  Hindoo  temple. 

The  structures  composing  the  Church  of  the  Holy 
Sepulchre  are  built  upon  two  natural  terraces  of  rock 
which  rise  out  of  the  valley.  A  spot  on  the  higher 
terrace  is  assumed  to  be  the  place  of  the  crucifixion. 
The  tomb  in  which  Christ  was  laid  is  said  to  have  been 
hewn  in  the  rock  which  forms  the  vertical  face  of  this 
terrace.  In  order  to  obtain  a  level  foundation  for  the 
original  churches  '  the  rock  of  the  upper  terrace  was  cut 
away  in  such  manner  as  to  leave  the  grave  of  Christ 
and  the  place  of  the  crucifixion  standing  out  as  isolated 
masses  of  rock  above  the  general  level.'  ^  On  the 

’  Macmillan’s  Guide  to  Palestine  and  Syria,  p.  45.  (London.  1908), 


70 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


lower  terrace,  which  was  considered  to  represent  the 
garden  of  the  Bible  narrative,  the  churches  were  built 
about  the  year  330.  Two  churches  were  erected  by 
Constantine — a  round  church  (now  represented  by  the 
Rotunda),  in  the  centre  of  which  was  the  tomb,  and 
a  basilica,  dedicated  to  the  Cross,  which  was  placed  to 
the  east,  but  in  what  exact  position  is  unknown.  The 
artificially  isolated  mass  of  rock,  called  Mount  Calvary, 
was  enclosed  by  a  separate  church  in  the  fifth  century. 
It  thus  happens  that  the  whole  configuration  of  the  spot 
has  been  so  altered  that  it  is  impossible  to  realise  what 
was  the  natural  aspect  of  the  region  before  the  work  of 
destruction  was  commenced. 

The  great  building  is  now  a  jumble  of  dark  churches 
and  gloomier  chapels,  burrowing  deep  into  the  earth. 
Every  corner  of  the  dismal,  bewildered  fabric  appears  to 
be  shrinking  from  the  light,  and  so  far  as  any  notion  of  the 
disposition  of  the  ground  can  be  obtained  the  structure 
might  have  been  founded  in  the  workings  of  a  mine. 

The  history  of  this  astonishing  house  of  prayer  has 
been  written  so  many  times  that  it  need  not  be  alluded 
to  except  to  say  that  of  the  earlier  churches  none  but 
the  faintest  traces  are  now  existing.  The  various  edi¬ 
fices  which,  from  time  to  time,  covered  the  site  were 
repeatedly  wrecked  or  destroyed  with  fire  by  fanatical 
heretics,  and  as  repeatedly  rebuilt  by  the  orthodox 
devout.  The  most  important  restoration  was  carried 
out  by  the  Crusaders  during  the  first  half  of  the  twelfth 
century,  when  a  building  of  great  grandeur  in  the 
Romanesque  style  was  erected.  Finally  came  the 
calamitous  fire  of  1808  which  swept  the  whole  fabric 


THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHRE  71 


from  the  ground,  leaving  merely  a  shell  of  the  Crusaders’ 
once  magnificent  building.  The  present  Church  of  the 
Holy  Sepulchre,  taken  as  a  whole,  dates  only  from 
1810 ;  so  the  visitor  will  see  within  its  circuit  but  few 
relics  of  its  tragic  and  turbulent  past. 

One  would  suppose  that  this  church,  this  shrine  of 
shrines,  this  sacred  place  which  is  ‘  the  centre  of  the 
worship  of  Christendom,’  would  stand  boldly  upon  a 
height,  or  would  rise  alone  from  a  wide  square,  surrounded 
at  a  distance  by  adoring  precincts.  It  should  be  too 
reverent  a  building  to  be  touched  or  even  approached  by 
meaner  walls.  It  should  be  an  edifice  that  could  be  seen 
from  afar  off,  and  should  spring,  imperious  and  supreme, 
above  all  that  struggling  mass  of  ill-shaped  houses, 
sycophant  convents,  and  minor  buildings  which  make  up 
the  body  of  Jerusalem.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  church  is 
one  of  the  least  conspicuous  buildings  in  the  city.  It  is 
approached  through  a  maze  of  lanes  full  of  shops,  and 
by  that  beggars’  stair  which  has  already  been  spoken 
of.  This  flight  of  steps,  lined  with  the  bodies  of  miser¬ 
able  men,  leads  to  a  little  courtyard,  very  ancient-looking 
and  full  of  light.  Here  at  one  end  stands  the  church, 
while  the  other  sides  of  the  courtyard  are  occupied  by 
heavy,  irregular  walls  with  unintelligible  buttresses, 
mysterious  windows,  and  fragments  of  older  buildings 
incorporated  in  their  substance.  They  belong  to  various 
chapels  and  convents  and  so  crowd  upon  the  church 
that  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen  of  it  but  two  doors, 
two  windows,  a  fascinating  gallery,  and  a  plain,  squat 
dome.  It  is  a  mere  disjointed  fragment  of  a  church  in 
a  small  square. 


72 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


The  fagade  that  is  seen  is  curiously  beautiful.  It  is 
built  of  biscuit-yellow  stone  and  is  just  that  shell  of  the 
twelfth-century  church  which  escaped  the  fire  of  1808. 
The  windows  are  small  and  of  unequal  size.  Both  are 
sunk  under  heavy  arches,  while  from  the  sill  of  one  window 
to  a  stone  ledge  below  there  rests  a  common  wooden 
ladder.  Not  even  the  dragoman  could  tell  me  why  the 
ladder  was  there  or  who  made  use  of  it.  There  are  two 
doors,  but  one  is  blocked  with  masonry.  I  suppose  these 
doors  are  better  known  than  are  any  church  doors  in 
Christendom,  for  photographs  of  the  fagade  of  the 
Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  are  as  widely  scattered 
as  are  pictures  of  the  Eiffel  Tower  or  of  the  Bridge 
of  Sighs. 

The  open  door  may  be  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  most 
wonderful  and  most  momentous  portals  in  the  world; 
the  door  most  dreamed  about,  most  told  about,  the 
nearest  to  the  gate  of  Heaven.  How  mighty  a  crowd 
of  rapt  pilgrims  have  passed,  with  bowed  heads  and 
streaming  eyes,  beneath  the  gloriously  carved  lintel  of 
this  entry.  If  they  could  all  come  back  again,  from 
the  Crusader  in  his  coat  of  mail,  from  the  Palmer  in  his 
muddied  gown,  to  the  Knight  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  to 
the  Squire  of  King  Charles,  and  thence  to  the  personally 
conducted  tourist  with  his  red-covered  Baedeker,  the 
queue  of  breathless,  prayer-muttering,  or  wonder-stricken 
folk  would  reach  from  this  very  door,  in  one  long  line, 
round  the  circumference  of  the  earth. 

On  one  side  of  the  church  is  a  venerable  bell-tower 
with  an  open  belfry,  so  that  the  bells  can  be  seen.  It 
was  erected  when  Henry  II  was  King  of  England  and 


CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHRE 


V 


THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHRE  73 

before  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion  came  to  the  throne,  and  so 
it  has  been  looking  down  into  the  courtyard  for  over 
seven  hundred  years.  On  the  other  side  of  the  court, 
opposite  to  the  campanile,  is  a  little  flight  of  steps  which 
leads  to  the  Chapel  of  the  Agony.  At  the  foot  of  these 
stairs  lies  buried  Philip  D'Aubigne,  an  English  Crusader 
who  died  in  1236.  The  stone  over  his  resting-place  has 
been  cracked,  not,  as  may  be  supposed,  by  fanatical 
paynims,  but  by  Christian  priests  who  had  a  desperate 
fight  here  as  lately  as  1902.  The  subject  of  the  fray  was 
this  very  Chapel  of  the  Agony.  It  is  an  instructive 
picture — this  furious  encounter  between  ministers  of 
Christ  above  the  tomb  of  a  Crusader. 

There  are  certain  sacred  sites  around  the  courtyard 
which  will  hardly  impress  the  seeker  after  truth,  as,  for 
example,  the  olive  tree  which  marks  the  spot  where 
Abraham  discovered  the  ram  when  about  to  sacrifice 
Isaac,  or  the  hollow  in  a  neighbouring  pavement  which 
indicates  the  position  where  the  sacrifice  was  to  have 
taken  place. 

The  quadrangle  in  which  the  church  stands  is  occupied 
by  beggars  and  hawkers  and  by  strolling  priests.  The 
beggars  have,  as  a  rule,  some  choice  deformity  to 
display,  while  the  hawkers  spread  their  goods  upon  the 
beautiful  ruddy  yellow  stones  of  the  Crusaders'  Court. 
They  have  for  sale  pieces  of  incense,  articles  made 
of  olive  wood  ‘  from  the  Mount  of  Olives,'  crucifixes  in 
mother-of-pearl,  rosaries  of  every  kind,  and  the  never- 
failing  picture-postcard. 

On  entering  the  church  one  steps  from  the  bright 
outer  world  into  a  cavernous  gloom.  Immediately 


74 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


in  front  of  the  visitor  there  arises  out  of  the  shadows 
a  lofty  shrine,  lit  partly  by  the  yellow  sparks  of  innumer¬ 
able  lamps  and  partly  by  the  misty  light  which  comes 
in  through  the  entry.  On  either  side  of  it  are  ghostly 
candelabra.  Suspended  from  the  as  yet  invisible  ceiling 
are  huge  lamps  in  red  bags.  They  look  like  red  bats 
with  folded  wings  hanging  from  the  vault.  Beneath 
lies  the  Stone  of  Unction  upon  which  the  body  of  Jesus 
was  laid  when  it  was  anointed  by  Nicodemus  with  ‘  a 
mixture  of  myrrh  and  aloes,  about  an  hundred  pound 
weight.'  The  stone,  a  slab  of  yellowish  marble,  is 
placed  horizontally  on  the  floor.  It  has  often  been 
changed  and,  indeed,  the  present  slab  was  laid  down 
as  recently  as  1808.  Yet  some  Russian  pilgrims  who 
entered  the  church  at  the  time  threw  themselves 
upon  the  ground  and  kissed  this  spurious  marble 
ravenously. 

A  few  steps  beyond  the  Stone  of  Unction  one  enters 
the  Rotunda,  where  stands  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  This 
Rotunda  is  a  plain  stone  building  of  no  interest,  erected 
in  1810.  The  central  dome  which  surmounts  it  is  a  struc¬ 
ture  of  iron  lined  with  painted  tin.  It  was  placed  in 
position  in  1868.  The  Rotunda,  however,  although 
quite  modem,  can  claim  to  preserve  with  some  pre¬ 
cision  the  ground-plan  of  Constantine's  Church  of  the 
Resurrection. 

In  the  centre  of  the  circular  floor  stands  the  tomb. 
My  first  view  of  it  was  marred  by  the  fact  that  certain 
tourists  were  taking  '  snapshots '  of  one  another,  using 
the  Sepulchre  of  Christ  as  a  background.  I  might 
pause  to  say  that  before  I  left  the  building  it  did  not 


THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHRE  75 


strike  me  that  this  episode  was  incongruous.  The 
rambling,  half-buried  fabric  has  little  of  the  odour  of 
sanctity  about  it.  It  does  not  seem  to  be  appropriate 
to  any  sane  religion.  The  few  worshippers  one  came 
upon  appeared  to  be  possessed  by  a  delirium  of  adora¬ 
tion  which  was  morbid  and  pitiable.  They  dropped 
down  before  the  sacred  spots  like  felled  cattle.  They 
kissed  the  stones  and  moaned  and  muttered  like 
creatures  filled  with  dread  rather  than  with  the  solace 
of  a  comforting  presence.  The  principal  church  behind 
the  Rotunda  is  ablaze  with  extravagant  decoration, 
with  brass  and  gilt,  with  silver  and  daubs  of  colour  ; 
festoons  of  glass  balls  swing  from  the  ceiling,  the  air 
is  thick  with  hanging  lamps,  the  altar  is  spiked  over 
with  candles,  while  at  every  possible  spot  on  the  wall 
is  a  picture  in  crude  tints  of  red  and  blue.  The  place 
is  more  like  a  gaudy  oriental  divan  decked  for  some 
noisy  festival  than  a  spot  sacred  to  Him  who  said  '  learn 
of  me ;  for  I  am  meek  and  lowly  in  heart :  and  ye  shall 
find  rest  unto  your  souls.’ 

Beyond  the  churches  lies  a  confusing  maze  which 
seems  to  burrow  under  ground.  There  are  dim  crypts 
and  cloisters,  twilight  passages  full  of  deserted  chapels, 
dark  entries  lit  by  the  single  spark  of  a  swinging  lamp, 
immense  archways,  colossal  columns,  mysterious  stairs 
that  are  lost  in  the  gloom  of  the  roof,  while  everywhere 
are  pictures  in  faded  gilt  and  hanging  candelabra  in 
red  bags. 

At  every  turn  is  some  sacred  site,  such  as  the  Chapel 
of  the  Parting  of  the  Raiment,  the  Chapel  of  the  Derision, 
the  Chapel  of  the  Nailing  to  the  Cross.  Indeed  the 


76 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  is,  in  its  more  visible 
parts,  a  show-place  full  of  objects  of  doubtful  authen¬ 
ticity,  and,  in  its  dark  alleys  and  deep  crypts,  a  kind  of 
necromancer's  cavern. 

The  Holy  Sepulchre  itself  is  enclosed  in  a  tkiy  cabi^- 
like  chapel,  built  of  marble,  which  is  the  colour  of  a  yellow 
autumn  leaf.  It  appears  to  have  been  reconstructed 
in  its  present  form  in  i8io.  The  entrance  is  made  garish 
by  huge  candlesticks  holding  painted  candles,  by  hanging 
lamps,  by  rows  of  pictures,  and  by  gilt  and  bright  metal 
wherever  the  same  can  be  introduced.  One  enters  through 
a  small  door  into  the  Chapel  of  the  Angels,  a  lamp-lit 
place  only  eleven  feet  long  by  ten  feet  wide.  Here 
is  placed  a  stone  set  in  marble,  which  is  that  which  was 
rolled  away  by  the  angel  from  the  mouth  of  the  sepul¬ 
chre.  It  is  a  part  only  of  the  same,  for  it  may  be 
remembered  that  the  stone  ‘  was  very  great.' 

By  stooping  down  one  then  passes  through  a  low 
and  narrow  doorway  into  the  Chapel  of  the  Sepulchre. 
This  is  a  mere  cell  about  six  feet  long  by  six  feet  wide. 
At  the  end  stands  a  Greek  priest  on  guard.  There  is 
no  suggestion  of  a  sepulchre.  The  actual  tomb — if 
tomb  there  be — is  covered  with  marble  and  converted 
into  an  altar.  The  place  is  made  brilliant  by  the  light 
of  many  little  lamps.  There  is  the  usual  display  of 
candles  and  figures,  while  in  the  centre  of  the  altar  is 
a  very  tawdry  vase  of  china  containing  a  posy  of 
flowers.  The  recalling  of  the  doubts  which  have  been 
cast  upon  the  genuineness  of  this  place  robs  it  of  its 
due  solemnity.  It  is  merely  a  chapel  in  a  cell,  yet  the 
cell  represents  the  heart  of  Christendom  and  occupies 


THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHRE  77 

a  spot  which,  through  many  centuries,  has  been  the 
most  revered  in  the  world. 

As  we  were  leaving  the  chapel  a  woman,  old,  poor, 
and  unhappy-looking,  crept  through  the  small  door  on 
her  knees  and,  after  kissing  the  stone  that  covered  the 
tomb,  laid  her  cheek  upon  it  in  the  attitude  of  one  who 
was  tired  but  content.  If  she  was  secure  in  the  belief 
that  she  had  brought  her  trouble  to  the  very  spot  where 
the  body  of  Christ  had  lain,  then  the  chapel  is  assuredly 
more  than  a  place  for  the  curious. 

In  the  side  wall  of  the  chapel  is  an  oval  opening  which 
suggests  the  orifice  of  a  shooting-gallery  at  a  fair.  Sir 
Rider  Haggard  compares  it  to  the  hawse-pipe  in  the 
bow  of  a  steamer.  It  is  through  this  opening  that 
the  sacred  fire  appears  at  the  festival  of  Easter.  The 
Christian  church  in  authority  here  encourages  the  belief 
that,  at  a  certain  moment  on  Easter  Eve,  fire  descends 
from  Heaven  to  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  where  it  is  received 
by  a  minister  of  God,  who  passes  it,  in  the  form  of  a 
lighted  taper,  to  the  yelling  multitude  without.  This 
Easter  scene  has  been  described  by  many  with  varying 
degrees  of  disgust.  It  is  only  to  be  equalled  by  those 
degrading  religious  orgies  which  are  to  be  met  with  in 
the  forests  of  savage  Africa. 

At  the  Easter  celebration  the  Rotunda  is  packed. 
Order  is  to  some  extent  maintained  by  a  strong  force 
of  Turkish  soldiers,  but  in  spite  of  these  armed  men 
some  hundreds  of  worshippers  have  been  crushed  to 
death  in  past  years.  Before  the  episode  of  the  fire  takes 
place  the  devout  endeavour  to  run  round  the  tomb  of 
Christ,  leaping,  jumping,  and  howling.  Dean  Stanley 


78 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


describes  this  part  of  the  Church  ritual  as  *  a  mixture 
of  prisoner’s  base,  football,  and  leap-frog.’  ^ 

Later  on  the  ceremony  degenerates  into  a  kind  of 
witches’  sabbath,  the  church  being  deafened  by  frenzied 
yells  and  screams,  while  its  floor  becomes  as  a  boiling 
cauldron  filled  with  arms  and  hands,  with  contorted, 
streaming  faces,  with  writhing  shoulders,  backs,  and 
knees.  Of  all  accounts  of  this  '  wholly  irreligious  tumult  ’ 
that  given  by  Mr.  Hichens  is  the  most  vivid.  He  wit¬ 
nessed  the  orgy  from  a  height  in  the  Rotunda.  ^  I 
looked  down,’  he  says,  ‘  upon  what  seemed  a  vast  crowd 
of  demented  people,  who  had  thrown  off  every  scrap  of 
self-restraint,  whose  strange  passions  went  naked  for  all 
to  see,  who  were  full  of  barbarous  violence,  savage  ex¬ 
pectation,  and  the  blood  lust.’  ^  In  such  manner  does  the 
Church  of  Christ  lead  the  followers  of  Jesus  along  the 
paths  of  peace  in  this  age  of  enlightenment. 

‘  Such,’  writes  Dean  Stanley,  ‘  is  the  Greek  Easter — 
the  greatest  moral  argument  against  the  identity  of  the 
spot  which  it  professes  to  honour — stripped  indeed  of 
some  of  its  most  revolting  features,  yet  still,  considering 
the  place  and  the  intention  of  the  professed  miracle, 
probably  the  most  offensive  imposture  to  be  found  in 
the  world.’  To  this  the  man  of  God  would  reply — if 
he  spoke  candidly — that  the  fraud  is  perpetuated  and 
the  miracle  maintained  because  '  there  is  money  in  it.’ 

There  is  but  one  thing  in  the  Rotunda  which  the 
visitor  will  contemplate  with  satisfaction.  At  the  back 
of  the  self-assertive,  over-decked  Holy  Sepulchre  is  a 

^  Loc.  cit.  p.  461. 

The  Holy  Land,  p.  291.  (London.  1910.) 


THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHRE  79 


tiny  chapel  of  dull  wood.  It  belongs  to  the  poor  Copts 
and  has  been  theirs  since  the  sixteenth  century.  It  is 
very  quaint  and  is  so  simple,  so  childlike,  and  so  modest, 
that  it  provides  the  only  satisfactory  religious  feature 
that  this  great  bazaar-like  building  can  provide. 

Many  of  the  ‘  sights  ’  in  the  church  to  which  the 
dragoman  would  direct  attention  are  merely  wearisome. 
It  is  of  no  interest  to  view  a  ring  of  modern  marble  in  a 
modern  floor  and  to  be  told  that  it  indicates  the  exact 
spot  where  Christ  stood  when  he  appeared  to  Mary 
Magdalene  in  the  Garden ;  on  which  occasion  the  poor, 
tearful  woman,  for  a  moment,  supposed  him  to  be  the 
gardener.  It  is  of  even  less  interest  to  take  a  stick 
and  to  push  it  through  a  hole  in  a  wall  for  the  purpose 
of  touching  a  fragment  of  stone  which  is  said  to  be 
a  part  of  the  Column  of  the  Scourging.  How  this 
particular  piece  of  stone  came  to  be  discovered  among 
the  heaps  of  like  stones  which  made  up  the  ruins  of 
Jerusalem  we  are  not  informed.  It  appears  to  have 
frequently  changed  both  its  size  and  its  colour,  while, 
on  the  other  hand,  the  claim  is  made  that  the  genuine 
column  stands  in  the  church  of  Santa  Prassede  at  Rome. 

Another  ‘  sight '  beloved  by  dragomans  is  provided 
in  the  Catholicon,  where  is  a  cup  containing  a  flattened 
ball.  This  article  indicates  the  centre  of  the  world  and 
will  be  viewed  with  curiosity  by  the  astronomer  and 
the  maker  of  maps.  We  declined  to  see  the  dark  place 
in  which  Christ,  together  with  the  two  thieves,  was 
imprisoned  while  the  preparations  for  the  crucifixion 
were  being  made.  We  also  declined  to  see  the  stocks 
in  which  the  feet  of  Christ  were  placed,  as  well  as  the 


8o 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


two  impressions  on  the  stone  which  show  the  actual 
footprints  of  the  Redeemer.  These  things  lie  rotting  in 
an  intellectual  dungeon  of  the  world,  buried  from  the 
wholesome  light  of  modern  reason  and  stifled  under  the 
shadow  of  imposture  and  superstition. 


VIII 


THE  thief’s  chapel  AND  CALVARY 

Among  the  score  and  more  chapels  which  spring  out, 
with  nightmare  effect,  at  every  turn  and  bend  in  the 
maze  of  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  there  is  none 
so  picturesque  as  the  Chapel  of  St.  Helena.  It  is  a  sub¬ 
terranean  place,  approached  by  some  thirty  steps,  and 
is  lit  by  a  dome  supported  upon  four  stunted  pillars  of 
immense  girth.  Each  pillar  is  capped  by  an  enormous 
top-heavy  capital  in  the  Byzantine  style.  It  is  the 
architecture  of  deformity.  The  chapel  is  very  old.  Some 
parts  date  from  the  seventh  century,  while  most  that 
is  evident  in  pillar  and  vaulted  roof  belongs  to  the 
eleventh  and  twelfth  centuries.  The  interior  of  the 
dome  is  decorated  by  crude  paintings.  Ghostly  frescoes, 
strange  by  reason  of  great  age,  cover  the  walls.  On  the 
floor  is  a  rough  stone  pavement,  while  from  the  dome 
hang  festoons  of  chains  bearing  glass  and  porcelain  balls. 
In  the  centre  a  great  lamp  is  suspended  in  a  red  bag. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  crypt  are  roughly  daubed  shrines 
of  warped  wood  devoted  to  a  curiously  assorted  couple — 
to  the  Empress  Helena  and  the  Penitent  Thief.  In  each 
shrine  is  an  altar  with  a  lighted  lamp.  It  is  interesting 

8l  .  G 


82 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


to  note  that  the  altar  of  the  Empress  is  a  little  larger 
than  the  altar  of  the  thief.  It  would  be  still  more  inter¬ 
esting  to  know  how  this  subtle  gradation  in  size  was 
arrived  at  and  upon  what  standard  of  worshipfulness 
it  was  based. 

There  is  an  intense  fascination  about  this  silent  and 
mysterious  cavern.  It  has  the  aspect  of  extreme,  mum¬ 
bling  old  age.  There  is  a  deathlike  chill  in  the  air, 
a  clamminess  that  creeps  about  the  place  like  a  mist. 
There  is  a  smell  of  the  grave,  the  slimy  odour  of  damp 
earth.  The  flames  of  the  two  little  lamps  are  so  low  that 
they  appear  to  be  suffocated  by  an  insipid  atmosphere 
which  has  remained  unchanged  for  a  thousand  years.  The 
place  is  buried  and  forgotten  ;  the  woodwork  is  wrinkled 
like  a  parchment ;  the  beams  are  made  leprous-looking 
by  a  pallid  mould  ;  the  walls  are  as  sodden  as  if  the  place 
were  filled  every  day,  roof  high,  by  a  noisome  tide. 

Surely  in  the  depths  of  moonless  nights,  when  the 
little  lamps  have  spluttered  out,  and  the  light  has  faded 
from  the  strings  of  glass  balls,  there  must  be  some 
recalling  of  the  past  in  this  astounding  caravanserai 
where,  as  in  an  inn,  there  rest  for  a  while  the  ghosts 
of  the  strangest  of  all  comrades — an  empress  and  a  thief. 
It  must  be  to  such  a  place  as  this  that  the  words  of 
Habakkuk  the  prophet  are  fitting : 

‘  For  the  stone  shall  cry  out  of  the  wall,  and  the 
beam  out  of  the  timber  shall  answer  it.' 

One  other  place,  a  place  of  supreme  concern,  remains 
to  be  seen.  This  is  the  place  of  the  Crucifixion.  It 
is  reached,  curious  to  say,  by  ascending  a  flight  of 
stone  stairs  near  to  the  door  of  the  church.  Golgotha,  or 


THE  THIEF’S  CHAPEL  AND  CALVARY  83 


Calvary,  is  no  longer  open  to  the  sky,  but  it  is  so  enclosed 
as  to  make  the  floor  of  a  low,  vault-like  chapel  from  the 
roof  of  which  innumerable  lamps  are  hanging.  With 
every  wish  to  be  reverent  I  must  confess  that  my  first 
impression  of  this  most  sacred  spot  was  the  impression 
of  a  lamp  shop,  an  idea  which  was  encouraged  by  the 
overpowering  smell  of  oil  and  by  the  chattering  of  a 
number  of  tourists  who  surveyed  the  chapel  and  the 
lamps  with  the  air  of  intending  purchasers. 

The  actual  spot  of  the  Crucifixion  is  occupied  by  an 
altar,  the  natural  rock  being  here  overlaid  with  marble. 
An  opening,  lined  with  silver,  shows  the  socket  in  the 
stone  where  the  cross  of  Christ  is  said  to  have  been 
inserted.  It  is  very  small.  The  sites  of  the  crosses 
of  the  two  thieves  are  also  indicated.  The  three  crosses 
are  so  close  together  that  the  outstretched  arms  of 
those  who  suffered  on  that  day  must  have  overlapped. 
Near  by  is  a  brass  tablet  which,  when  pushed  aside,  reveals 
the  so-called  '  cleft  in  the  rock.’  The  cleft — a  mere 
groove — is  lined  with  ruddy  marble  and  is  but  a  few  inches 
deep.  It  totally  fails  to  make  real  the  vivid  account 
given  by  St.  Matthew  when  Jesus  cried  again  with  a 
loud  voice.  ‘  And,  behold,  the  veil  of  the  temple  was  rent 
in  twain  from  the  top  to  the  bottom  ;  and  the  earth  did 
quake,  and  the  rocks  rent ;  and  the  graves  were  opened.’ 

The  chapel  is  decorated  with  a  restless  straining  after 
display.  A  painted  ceiling  surmounts  lavishly  painted 
walls.  Seen  through  an  atmosphere  shimmering  with 
brass  and  gilt,  with  silver  and  coloured  glass,  there  is 
a  vague  vision  of  bright  marble,  of  shining  images  and 
crosses,  and  a  never-ending  host  of  candles  and  lamps. 


84  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

One  would  associate  the  conception  of  Calvary  with 
a  hushed,  contemplative,  peace-assuring  spot  and  not 
with  this  strident  showroom,  hung  about  with  the 
jingling  gewgaws  of  a  country  fair.  While  it  may  serve 
to  represent  the  craft  of  the  priest  it  certainly  fails  to 
realise  the  spirit  of  the  place.  It  is  as  incongruous  as 
would  be  a  mother’s  lullaby  played  on  a  cornet.  Those 
who  find  comfort  in  the  belief  that 

'  There  is  a  green  hill  far  away. 

Without  a  city  wall  ’ 

and  who  would  keep  that  vision  clear  and  unspoiled, 
should  never  come  nigh  to  Jerusalem. 


IX 

THE  ROOF  OF  THE  CHURCH 

The  view  of  Jerusalem  from  the  roof  of  the  Church  of 
the  Holy  Sepulchre  is  very  gracious.  After  wandering 
through  the  twilight  passages  of  the  church,  and  after 
breathing  a  languid  atmosphere  of  incense  and  oil,  it  is 
well  to  be  in  the  sun  again  and  under  the  clear  air  of 
heaven.  Stretching  eastwards  is  a  view  across  the  city 
to  the  encircling  wall,  and  beyond  the  wall  to  the  open 
country.  Jerusalem  appears  as  a  pale  yellow  city, 
made  up  of  domes  and  towers  and  box-like  squares  of 
whitened  masonry  with  basin-shaped  roofs  and  black 
chinks  for  windows.  There  is  no  sign  of  a  street,  but 
here  and  there  is  a  glimpse  of  a  quiet  courtyard  with 
possibly  a  splash  of  green  in  it.  As  a  relief  to  the  stacks 
of  pale  cubes,  rising  at  all  levels  and  facing  all  ways, 
will  be  a  few  patches  of  brown  tiles,  a  grey  shutter  or  an 
iron  balcony,  a  sentinel-like  cypress  and  even  a  palm  or 
two.  There  are  a  few  roofs  of  vivid  red,  a  few  walls  of 
startling  blue,  while  many  crosses  stand  out  against  the 
cloudless  sky. 

Beyond  the  city,  across  the  Valley  of  Jehosaphat, 

are  the  Mount  of  Olives  and  the  country  that  leads  to 

85 


86 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


Bethany  and  the  Jordan,  while  on  the  far  horizon  stand 
the  Mountains  of  Moab.  It  is  a  poor,  cheerless,  unlovely 
country,  dun-coloured  like  a  beggar’s  cloak,  barren  and 
littered  with  stones.  There  is,  at  the  moment,  not  a  sign 
of  a  human  being  on  the  sorry  roads,  and  a  vision  of  such 
a  land  as  this  must  have  filled  the  eyes  of  the  prophet 
when  he  wrote  :  '  Thus  the  land  was  desolate  after  them, 
that  no  man  passed  through  nor  returned :  for  they  laid 
the  pleasant  land  desolate.’ 

The  Mount  of  Olives  is  a  brown  ridge,  very  common¬ 
place,  humble,  and  suburban.  It  is,  I  think,  the  least 
beautiful  hill  I  can  call  to  mind.  Compared  to  a  sleek, 
green  down  or  the  tree-covered  '  hanger  ’  it  is  harsh  and 
ugly.  It  is  just  a  dry,  stony  hill,  with  a  few  starved  olive 
trees  and  many  modern  buildings  on  its  slopes,  with  a 
copious  Jewish  cemetery  at  its  foot,  like  a  vast  stone¬ 
mason’s  yard,  and,  on  its  summit,  a  belvedere  and  a 
barrack  as  represented  by  the  huge  Russian  tower  and 
the  new  German  hospice.  This  Olivet,  this  path  to  the 
village  of  Bethany,  this  way  leading  down  to  the  Jordan, 
are  all  sacred  sites  of  unquestionable  genuineness.  This 
is  the  country  that  was  traversed  by  the  feet  of  Christ  ,* 
this  is  the  very  view  that,  in  every  dip  and  knoll,  was 
familiar  to  His  eyes.  This  is  a  veritable  part  of  the  Holy 
Land,  a  little  changed  it  may  be  as  to  its  surface,  but 
quite  unaltered  in  its  general  outline.  It  is  one  of  the  few 
true  things  in  Palestine,  and  one  very  wholesome  to  look 
upon  after  that  surfeit  of  glamour  and  imposture  which 
the  church  beneath  one’s  feet  provides. 

It  was  in  this  plain,  unassuming  country  that  the 
religion  of  Christ  was  taught.  It  was  taught  in  the 


JERUSALEM  :  VIEW  FROM  ROOF  OF  CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHRE 


THE  ROOF  OF  THE  CHURCH 


87 


simplest  language,  in  words  that  a  child  could  understand, 
and  by  means  of  illustrations  drawn  from  the  lowliest 
subjects.  There  was  in  the  teaching  no  stilted  ritual, 
no  gorgeous  ceremony,  no  foreshadowing  of  the  princely 
prelate  or  the  chanting  priest.  It  was  a  religion  asso¬ 
ciated  with  such  sounds  as  the  splash  of  a  fisherman's 

V 

net  in  the  lake,  the  patter  of  sheep,  the  call  of  the  shep¬ 
herd,  the  tramp  of  the  sower  across  the  fields.  As  for 
the  Teacher  Himself,  He  was  a  man  of  the  people,  the  son 
of  a  carpenter.  Who  knew  no  dwelling  but  the  humblest, 
and  Who,  if  He  could  be  seen  walking  now  along  the  road 
that  stretches  away  towards  Bethany,  would  be  clad 
in  no  better  garb  than  that  of  the  fellah  of  to-day. 
If  one  were,  on  the  other  hand,  to  seek  the  teacher  of  the 
present  time  there  would  appear  upon  the  road  a  bishop, 
resplendent  in  vestments  of  great  price,  who  lorded  it  in 
a  palace  and  who  would  carry,  as  a  symbol  of  his  office, 
the  pastoral  staff.  This  staff,  a  costly  article  of  silver 
gilded  with  gold  and  rich  with  ornament,  is  a  vulgar 
mockery  of  the  simple  iron  crook  of  the  Good  Shepherd. 
The  difference  between  the  two  well  represents  the 
gulf  that  separates  the  Christian  faith  as  it  was  first 
taught  from  the  Christian  Church  with  its  masquerade 
of  mitres  and  vestments,  and  its  tawdry  machinery  of 
worship.  The  one  religion  has  become  broken  up  into  a 
hundred  warring  sects  who  regard  one  another  with  great 
malignancy  and  who  have  given  rise  to  those  '  contentions 
and  j  ealousies  which,  from  the  earliest  time  to  the  present 
day,  have  been  the  bane  of  the  history  of  the  Christian 
Church.'  Baedeker,  in  referring  to  the  native  Christians 
of  Jerusalem,  states  that  ‘  the  bitter  war  which  rages 


88 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


among  them  is  carried  on  with  very  foul  weapons,  and 
the  contempt  with  which  the  orthodox  Jews  and 
Mohammedans  look  down  on  the  Christians  is  only  too 
well  deserved/ 

It  is  an  unanswerable  testimony  to  the  power  and 
vitality  of  the  Christian  faith  that  it  should  not  only  have 
survived  but  should  have  spread  itself  over  the  entire 
earth  in  spite  of  the  slough  of  corruption  through  which 
the  ministers  of  the  Gospel  have  dragged  it.  Speaking  of 
the  morality  and  pursuits  of  the  disciples  of  Christ  in  this 
very  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  Dean  Stanley  writes 
as  follows  :  1  ‘  It  would  be  an  easy  though  melancholy 
task  to  tell  how  the  Armenians  stole  the  Angel's  Stone 
from  the  ante-chapel  of  the  Sepulchre — how  the  Latins 
procured  a  firman  to  stop  the  repairs  of  the  dome  by  the 
Greeks — how  the  Greeks  demolished  the  tombs  of  the 
Latin  Kings,  Godfrey  and  Baldwin,  in  the  resting-place 
which  those  two  heroic  chiefs  had  chosen  for  themselves 
at  the  foot  of  Calvary — how,  in  the  bloody  conflicts  of 
Easter,  the  English  traveller  was  taunted  by  the  Latin 
monks  with  eating  the  bread  of  their  convent,  and  not 
fighting  for  them  in  the  Church — how  the  Abyssinian 
convent  was  left  vacant  for  the  Greeks  in  the  panic  raised 
when  a  drunken  Abyssinian  monk  shot  the  muezzin 
going  his  rounds  on  the  top  of  Omar's  minaret — how, 
after  the  great  fire  of  1808,  which  fire  itself  the  Latins 
charge  to  the  ambition  of  the  Greek  monks,  two  years  of 
time  and  two-thirds  of  the  cost  of  the  restoration  were 
consumed  in  the  endeavours  of  each  party,  by  bribes 
and  litigations,  to  overrule  and  eject  the  others  from  the 

^  Sinai  and  Palestine,  p.  458.  (London,  1881,) 


THE  ROOF  OF  THE  CHURCH 


89 


places  they  had  respectively  occupied  in  the  ancient 
arrangement  of  the  Churches/  When  one  finds  the 
followers  of  the  Redeemer  practising  such  crimes  as 
theft  and  sacrilege,  murder  and  drunkenness,  arson  and 
church  fighting,  corruption  and  treachery,  upon  the  very 
spot  that  they  themselves  claim  to  be  the  scene  of  the 
Crucifixion,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  finds  the  faith 
gaining  power  in  the  world,  it  seems  to  be  assured  that 
Christianity  will  outlast  both  the  Christian  Church  and 
the  self-glorifying  inventions  of  her  priests. 


X 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  MOUNT  MORIAH 

Without  doubt  the  most  beautiful  building  in  Jerusalem 
is  the  Mohammedan  shrine  known  as  the  Dome  of  the 
Rock.  More  than  that,  it  may  claim  to  be  one  of  the 
most  exquisite  buildings  in  the  world.  It  is  sometimes 
called  the  Mosque  of  Omar,  but  to  this  title  there  are  two 
objections  :  in  the  first  place  it  was  not  built  by  Omar, 
and,  secondly,  it  is  not  a  mosque.  The  structure  stands 
on  or  about  the  sites  of  Solomon's  Temple  and  of  that 
other  temple,  built  by  Herod,  in  which  men  worshipped 
at  the  time  of  Christ.  Of  these  two  temples  no  traces  now 
exist  unless  they  be  in  the  form  of  certain  deeply  buried 
foundations  which  were  laid  to  maintain  level  surfaces 
upon  the  summit  of  an  uneven  hill.  This  hill  is  Mount 
Moriah,  the  northern  height  of  that  slope  which  is  now 
called  Ophel  and  which  is  assumed  to  represent  the  hill 
of  Zion,  upon  which  stood  the  City  of  David  (page  43). 
The  rock  concerned  in  the  title  '  The  Dome  of  the  Rock ' 
is  an  exposed  pinnacle  of  Mount  Moriah  which  rises  up, 
bare  and  undisturbed,  in  the  centre  of  the  shrine.  The 
building  itself  seems  to  have  been  erected  in  the  year 
A.D.  691,  and  to  have  been  improved  and  enlarged  in 

90 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  MOUNT  MORIAH 


91 

A.D.  831.  It  can  claim,  therefore,  to  have  lived  through 
a  period  of  one  thousand  two  hundred  years. 

Before  visiting  the  Dome  it  is  necessary  to  obtain, 
through  the  visitor's  Consul,  the  permission  of  the 
Turkish  authorities  to  enter  the  place.  The  visitor  also 
must  be  accompanied  by  a  Turkish  soldier  in  order  that 
he  may  be  protected  from  violence.  This  precaution 
sounds  perilous,  but  it  is  merely  a  graceful,  if  complex, 
procedure  for  the  acquiring  of  baksheesh.  The  Turkish 
guard  who  escorted  us,  and  upon  whom  the  safety  of  our 
lives  theoretically  depended,  was  an  amiable  but  weary- 
looking  man  whose  head  and  face  were  wrapped  up  in  a 
woman's  plaid  shawl  which  magnified  the  size  of  the 
cranium  immensely.  Out  of  the  folds  of  the  shawl,  which 
concealed  all  but  his  eyes,  he  muttered  reassuredly  from 
time  to  time.  Possibly  he  implored  us  not  to  be  anxious. 
He  was  armed  with  a  sword  of  great  size,  while  under  his 
disengaged  arm  he  carried  an  umbrella.  In  general 
aspect  he  was  an  ingenious  compromise  between  an 
Eastern  warrior  and  a  countryman  returning  from  the 
dentist.  Happily  he  had  no  occasion  to  draw  his 
scimitar  'to  carve  the  casques  of  men,'  but  we  found 
his  umbrella  a  protection,  for  the  day  was  wet. 

The  approach  to  the  Dome  is  across  the  Tyropoeon 
Valley  by  the  way  of  the  cotton  merchants'  bazaar. 
This  is  a  long,  empty,  stinking  tunnel,  with  a  roof  of 
solid  masonry  and,  on  either  side,  immense  cavernous 
vaults  built  also  of  stone.  The  cotton  merchants  have 
vanished ;  the  place  is  deserted ;  while  the  massive 
crypts  where  the  cotton  was  piled  are  now  used  for 
storing  manure.  As  an  illustration  of  Turkish  views 


92 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


upon  sanitation  the  place  is  not  uninstructive.  Sir 
Rider  Haggard  describes  this  awful  passage  as  '  a 
covered-in  ally  of  a  filthiness  so  peculiar  and  surpassing 
that  before  it  everything  else  of  the  kind  which  I  have 
seen  in  the  Holy  Land  sink  its  ineffectual  stench/ 

After  escaping  from  the  poisonous  gloom  of  the 
cotton  merchants'  bazaar  one  comes  suddenly  upon  a 
great  level  square,  paved  with  clean  white  stones,  dazzling 
as  a  plain  of  snow.  The  square  is  open  to  the  heavens 
and  to  all  that  wide  country  which  stretches  to  the  east 
from  the  Mount  of  Olives  to  the  far-away  mountains  of 
Moab.  On  the  platform  stands  the  shrine,  isolated  and 
alone,  a  wonder  of  yellow  and  blue-green  walls,  capped 
by  a  dome  the  colour  of  old  bronze.  The  immense 
area  is  empty  ;  there  is  not  a  living  creature  to  be  seen. 
The  only  thing  that  moves  upon  it  is  the  shadow  of  a 
cloud  creeping  across  the  broad  expanse.  The  silence  of 
the  spot  is  absolute.  After  the  noise  of  the  bazaar  the 
stillness  makes  one  dumb.  After  the  mean  and  narrow 
lanes  the  smooth,  open  platform  seems  to  be  vast  and 
majestic  as  the  sea.  After  the  restless  crowds  which  fill 
the  city  this  place  becomes  at  once  an  awe-inspiring 
solitude.  After  the  fetid  atmosphere  of  the  town  the 
rush  of  keen  air  that  sweeps  across  this  spotless  terrace 
is  as  a  cleansing  stream. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  compare  this  solemn  and 
silent  court  with  the  cramped  yard  around  the  Church 
of  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  where  is  ever  a  rabble  of  beggars 
and  a  mob  of  pedlars  selling  crosses  and  postcards. 
The  Mohammedan,  it  will  be  seen,  holds  that  a  proper 
reverence  should  mark  the  precincts  of  his  holy  places. 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  MOUNT  MORIAH 


93 


On  this  platform  of  stone  stood  that  marvellous 
Temple  built  by  Solomon.  It  was  built  amidst  just 
such  a  silence  as  even  now  broods  over  the  spot,  for 
‘  the  house,  when  it  was  in  building,  was  built  of  stone 
made  ready  before  it  was  brought  thither  :  so  that  there 
was  neither  hammer  nor  axe  nor  any  tool  of  iron  heard 
in  the  house,  while  it  was  in  building.' 

This  great  house,  which  was  commenced  in  the  month 
Zif,  had  '  windows  of  narrow  lights,'  and  the  length 
of  it  was  threescore  cubits.  '  The  cedar  of  the  house 
within  was  carved  with  knops  and  open  flowers,'  while 
the  beams  and  walls  were  overlaid  with  the  gold  of 
Parvaim.  It  was  here,  too,  that  were  placed  the  two 
cherubims  of  image  work  whose  wings  spread  themselves 
forth  twenty  cubits.  It  was  here  also  that  stood  the 
molten  sea  which  was  round  in  compass  and  ten  cubits 
from  brim  to  brim,  while  the  edge  of  it  was  ^  like  the 
work  of  the  brim  of  a  cup,  with  flowers  of  lilies.'  It 
was  a  building  dazzling  from  floor  to  ceiling  with  gold, 
for  not  only  was  it  lined  with  gold,  but  '  all  the 
vessels  that  pertained  unto  the  house  ' — the  candlesticks, 
the  tongs,  the  bowls,  the  snuffers,  the  basins,  and  the 
spoons — were  made  by  Solomon  of  pure  gold.  The 
lamps,  too,  ‘  made  he  of  gold,  and  that  perfect  gold.' 
It  was  from  the  open  terrace  also  that  the  column  of 
smoke  from  the  great  altar  rose  upwards  into  the  air. 
On  a  still  day  it  would  stand  like  a  grey  column  against 
the  background  of  the  far  hills  and  the  blue  sky. 

On  that  side  of  the  Temple  area  which  abuts  upon 
Jerusalem  there  stands,  at  a  respectful  distance,  a  range 
of  irregular  buildings  fashioned  of  stone.  They  have 


94 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


dark  archways,  patched  and  seamed  walls  with  furtive 
windows,  and  are  generally  suggestive  of  grave  mystery. 
They  are  not  apparently  dweUing-houses,  nor  are  they 
public  buildings.  They  seem  designed  rather  to  make  the 
background  for  some  drama  full  of  dread  deeds  and 
sinister  intents.  I  avoided  making  any  inquiry  about 
them,  for  their  fascination  is  bound  up  in  their  inscrut¬ 
ability,  and  the  charm  would  vanish  if  one  were  told 
that  they  were  merely  discarded  barracks  or  abandoned 
warehouses. 

The  Dome  of  the  Rock  is  an  octagonal  building  most 
wonderful  in  its  colouring.  The  lower  walls  are  of  fine 
marble  of  the  tint  of  old  ivory.  Above  them  comes 
a  row  of  pointed  windows  filled  with  stained  glass.  The 
walls  between  the  windows  are  covered  with  many- 
coloured  Persian  tiles,  the  general  effect  of  which  is  to 
produce  a  tremulous  shimmer  of  blue  and  green  like 
that  on  a  beetle's  back.  Above  the  windows  are  texts 
from  the  Koran  in  the  form  of  a  bright  band  of  white 
kufic  letters  in  a  setting  of  deep  blue.  Over  the 
octagon  is  the  dome,  which  is  of  that  violet-grey  colour 
to  be  seen  on  a  long-buried  bronze  sword.  So  between 
the  platform  of  white  and  the  sky  of  lapis  lazuli 
stands  this  exquisite  fabric  which,  as  it  leaves  the 
ground,  changes  from  faint  yellow  to  an  iridescent  blue, 
shot  with  green,  and  then,  in  the  dome,  to  a  grey 
deepened  with  blue.  The  whole  structure  suggests  a 
rare  casket  of  ivory  and  porcelain,  fragile  and  tender, 
placed  alone  in  the  centre  of  a  plateau  of  stone. 

Within  the  building  all  is  dark.  Until  one  becomes 
accustomed  to  the  gloom  there  is  merely  an  impression 


HOUSES  IN  THE  TEMPLE  AREA,  JERUSALEM 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  MOUNT  MORIAH 


95 


of  a  great  round  chamber  with  a  luminous  dome  high  up 
in  the  air  and  on  the  ground  a  grille  of  gilded  metal 
surrounding  an  inner  circle  of  purple  pillars  capped  with 
gold.  The  floor  is  covered  with  red  Persian  carpets 
and  yellow  mats.  Not  a  sound  of  a  footstep  can  be 
heard.  No  one  speaks,  or  speaks  only  in  a  whisper, 
while,  moving  about  in  the  shadows,  are  men  in  long 
brown  robes  with  turbans  on  their  heads.  This  is  a 
holy  reverential  place,  the  shrine  of  a  grave  religion, 
a  place  of  unfathomable  calm.  It  is  in  great  contrast 
with  the  bazaar-like  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
which  is  holy  only  in  name. 

A  gate  leads  through  the  grille  to  the  area  beneath 
the  Dome.  This  grille  is  a  beautiful  screen  of  wrought 
iron  made  by  the  French  about  the  end  of  the  twelfth 
century.  There  is  a  passage  within  the  iron  screen, 
limited,  on  its  inner  side,  by  a  circular  wooden  paling 
curiously  panelled  and  painted  in  faint  colours.  Within 
the  paling  is  the  bare  rock  which  the  shrine  protects. 

The  interior  of  the  Dome  is  supremely  beautiful, 
while  the  softened  light  that  fills  it  is  so  magical  in  colour 
that  it  is,  I  think,  unlike  any  light  that  ever  illumined 
nave  or  aisle.  The  upper  part  of  the  Dome  is  a  blaze  of 
red  and  gold  blended  in  an  intricate,  quivering  pattern. 
Then  comes  a  row  of  windows  filled  with  stained  glass. 
The  colours  which  are  splashed  on  the  irregular  panes 
are  mostly  green  and  yellow,  blue  and  red,  and  the  effect 
produced  is  only  comparable  to  that  which  would  be 
presented  by  a  rich  Persian  carpet  if  it  had  been  rendered 
translucent  and  then  held  up  against  the  light.  The 
lower  part  of  the  Dome  is  lined  with  what  might  be 


96 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


elaborate  and  faded  needlework  in  which  some  threads 
are  grey,  some  gold,  and  some  green.  The  surface 
glistens  with  a  thousand  bright  spots  and  is  broken 
horizontally  by  two  narrow  bands  of  red  and  gold. 
Between  the  outer  pillars  of  the  shrine  stretch  iron  rods 
from  which  are  suspended  tiny  lamps  of  clear  glass  and 
of  the  very  simplest  pattern.  They  are  arranged  always, 
so  far  as  I  observed,  in  little  clusters  of  five  or  of  seven, 
and  make,  I  should  imagine,  the  most  appropriate 
illumination  that  any  place  of  worship  could  provide. 

Within  the  wooden  paling  and  under  the  centre  of 
the  Dome  is  the  Holy  Rock.  It  is  a  mass  of  bare  natural 
stone,  rugged  and  uncouth,  of  a  warm  yeUow  colour 
faintly  flushed  with  red.  It  rises  to  the  height  of 
some  five  feet  and  is  stated  to  measure  fifty-eight  feet  in 
one  direction  and  forty-four  feet  in  the  other.  It  is 
the  actual  summit  of  Mount  Moriah,  a  spur  of  rock 
standing  now  just  as  it  stood,  open  to  the  sun  and 
the  rain,  in  the  days  when  Solomon  was  King.  It 
is  true  that  the  Crusaders  covered  it  for  a  time  with 
marble  and  placed  an  altar  upon  it,  but  of  this  bar¬ 
baric  treatment  scarcely  a  scar  remains.  A  pinnacle 
of  rock  that  has  remained  unchanged  since  it  met 
the  sight  of  the  first  Jebusite  adventurers  who  ever 
penetrated  to  this  solitude  is  surely  more  worshipful 
than  a  new  altar  fresh  from  the  workshops  of  Italy  or 
France.  There  are  many  who  hold  to  the  belief  that 
upon  this  very  shoulder  of  rock  there  stood  the  Altar 
of  Burnt  Offering.  Be  that  as  it  may,  it  will  suffice  for 
most  that  they  can  see  here  at  least  one  unsullied  piece 
of  holy  ground.  They  can  see,  moreover,  in  this  place 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  MOUNT  MORIAH 


97 


of  quietude  and  peace  an  expression  of  the  most  intense 
devotion.  In  their  oblation  to  their  God  the  shrine- 
builders  have  given  of  their  best,  have  given  their  all, 
the  labour  of  years,  the  invention  of  minds  striving 
to  ascribe  the  fittest  glory  to  Heaven,  the  imagination 
of  brains  seeking  to  embody  the  ecstasy  of  worship. 

There  are  many  legends  connected  with  the  Dome 
of  the  Rock,  some  of  which  are  curiously  fantastic.  For 
example,  there  is  near  the  north  door  of  the  shrine  a 
slab  of  jasper  let  into  the  ground.  From  the  surface  of 
the  slab  three  or  four  bright-headed  nails  project.  It  is 
impossible  to  suppose  that  the  imaginative  Eastern  mind 
could  leave  this  nail-studded  piece  of  jasper  without  a 
story.  So  the  story  is  as  follows.  The  slab  once  decorated 
the  lid  of  Solomon's  tomb,  and  into  it  Mohammed 
drove  nineteen  golden  nails.  Why  Mohammed  under¬ 
took  this  curious  piece  of  work,  and  why  the  nails  were 
exactly  nineteen  in  number  is  not  known.  It  was  found 
by  some  observant  person  that  a  nail  fell  out  at  the  end 
of  certain  periods  of  time  and  it  was  concluded  that 
when  the  last  fell  away  the  world  would  come  to  an  end. 
One  day  the  Devil,  who  had  discovered  the  secret  of 
the  nails,  came  slyly  to  the  spot  and  began  to  pull  out 
the  nails  as  fast  as  he  could.  In  this  most  nefarious 
and  heartless  work  he  was  ‘  fortunately  discovered  by 
the  Angel  Gabriel,'  who  at  once  made  him  leave  off 
and  drove  him  away.  But  for  this  happy  intervention 
of  the  angel  the  world  might  have  come  to  an  end  long 
ago.  In  any  case  the  life  of  the  globe  has  been  much 
shortened  by  this  wanton  mischief,  for  there  are  only 
three  and  a  half  nails  left.  It  is  very  much  to  be  hoped 


H 


98  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

that  no  careless  tourist  will  knock  out  the  few  that 
remain  with  his  heel  as  he  stumbles  about  in  the 
dark. 

Then,  again,  not  very  far  away  from  the  Dome  of 
the  Rock  is  a  well  or  cistern  called  the  Leaf  Fountain. 
It  acquired  this  pretty  name  under  the  following 
circumstances.  Once  upon  a  time  a  careless  man,  who 
was  a  friend  of  the  Caliph  Omar,  let  his  pitcher  fall  into 
this  well  when  he  came  to  draw  water.  He  naturally 
at  once  climbed  down  the  well  for  the  purpose  of 
recovering  the  pitcher.  Now  any  little  girl  who  is 
versed  in  fairy  stories  needs  not  to  be  told  that  when 
he  reached  the  bottom  of  the  well  he  discovered  a  very 
curious-looking  door.  He  naturally  opened  the  door 
and,  passing  through  the  entry,  found  himself,  according 
to  precedent,  in  an  enchanting  garden  with  many  or¬ 
chards  in  it.  When  he  came  to  explore  this  wonderful 
spot  he  found  it  more  marvellous  than  he  could  have 
imagined  any  place  to  be. 

Feeling  that  his  friends  in  Jerusalem  would  never 
believe  his  bare  story,  he  picked  a  leaf  off  one  of  the 
trees  and  tucked  it  behind  his  ear.  He  put  the  leaf 
there  in  order  that  he  might  have  both  hands  free  to 
climb  up  the  side  of  the  well  again.  Having,  no  doubt, 
taken  care  to  close  the  door  at  the  bottom  after  him, 
he  reached  the  top  of  the  well  without  difficulty.  The 
story  does  not  relate  if  he  got  his  pitcher  back  or  not. 
The  most  extraordinary  thing  happened  to  the  leaf. 
The  man,  of  course,  kept  it,  but  to  his  surprise  not  only 
did  it  never  fade,  but  it  ever  preserved  its  delicious 
green  colour  with  all  its  original  freshness  and  softness. 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  MOUNT  MORIAH 


99 


It  therefore  became  evident  in  time  that  the  garden 
he  had  strolled  into  when  he  was  looking  for  his  pitcher 
was  no  less  than  the  Garden  of  Paradise.  I  am  afraid 
that  the  door  at  the  bottom  of  the  well  will  never  be 
found  by  anyone  else,  so  it  is  not  worth  any  boy's 
while  to  drop  a  pitcher  down  for  the  sake  of  making  the 
search.  The  reason  is  this.  In  old  days  the  water 
came  to  the  well  all  the  way  from  Bethlehem  through 
a  subterranean  conduit.  This  is  very  mysterious  and 
very  appropriate  ;  but  the  people  of  Bethlehem  began 
to  meddle  with  this  water  supply,  so  in  order  to  obtain 
a  ‘  constant  service '  for  the  Leaf  Fountain  what  is 
called  '  a  four-inch  iron  pipe  '  was  laid  down  in  the  year 
of  our  Lord  1901.  Now  it  may  be  safe  to  conclude 
that  a  four-inch  iron  pipe  direct  from  Birmingham  does 
not  run  outside  any  door  that  leads  into  Paradise. 

There  are  very  many  things  of  interest  about  the 
Temple  area  besides  the  legends  and  the  stories.  Among 
such  is  the  Mosque  El-Aksa,  which  was,  at  the  beginning 
of  its  days,  a  sixth-century  church  dedicated  to  the 
Virgin  Mary.  It  was  converted  into  a  mosque  by  the 
enthusiastic  Omar.  This  church  turned  mosque  is  a 
curiously  hybrid  structure  which,  although  it  has  been 
subjected  to  an  infinite  number  of  '  restorations  '  and 
rebuildings,  still  presents  traces  of  its  original  mag¬ 
nificence.  It  is  a  kind  of  architectural  olla  podrida, 
and  among  the  medley  of  stones  that  make  it  up 
many  very  beautiful  features  may  still  be  discovered. 
Incidentally  attention  is  drawn  to  a  spot  near  the  main 
entrance  where  the  murderers  of  Thomas  a  Becket, 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  lie  buried. 


100 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


There  are  some  extraordinary  crypts  and  substruc¬ 
tures  beneath  the  Temple  area.  The  most  astonishing 
is  a  subterranean  passage  where  is  a  flight  of  steps 
divided  down  the  middle  by  massive  piers  of  great 
antiquity.  It  is  suggested  that  this  passage  is  a  relic  of 
the  magnificent  stair  which  led  up  the  slope  of  Mount 
Moriah  from  that  gate  of  the  city  which,  in  Solomon's 
days,  was  by  the  pool  of  Siloam.  It  was  this  stair 
which  Solomon  pointed  out  to  the  Queen  of  Sheba 
as  the  ‘  ascent  by  which  he  went  up  into  the  house  of 
the  Lord,'  and  when  she  had  seen  it  and  had  noted 
also  ‘  the  meat  of  his  table,  .  .  .  and  the  attendance 
of  his  ministers,  and  their  apparel '  she  was  filled 
with  such  amazement  that  '  there  was  no  more  spirit 
in  her.' 

There  are  also  those  far-reaching  subterranean  pas¬ 
sages,  the  vaulting  of  which  is  supported  by  titanic 
piers,  which  are  known  as  Solomon's  stables.  Although 
Solomon  knew  them  not,  and  although  they  were  prob¬ 
ably  only  used  as  stables  by  the  Crusaders,  it  would 
appear  that  many  of  the  great  stones  of  the  pillars  are 
of  extreme  antiquity. 

Finally,  in  that  part  of  the  city  wall  which  encloses 
the  Temple  area  on  its  eastern  quarter  is  the  Golden 
Gate.  This  gate  is  blocked  up  with  masonry  on  the 
outer  side  and  is  beautiful  only  in  its  name.  It  is  a 
square,  unfriendly-looking  mass  of  stone  which  might 
as  well  be  called  the  Dumb  Gate  as  the  Golden.  It  is 
supposed  by  some  that  it  was  through  this  portal  that 
Christ  passed  when  He  made  His  triumphal  entry  from 
Bethany.  Those  who  are  experts  in  the  reading  of 


MOUNT  OF  OLIVES 


THE  SUMMIT  OF  MOUNT  MORIAH 


lOI 


sermons  in  stones  state  that  the  present  structure 
cannot  be  older  than  the  sixth  or  seventh  century  after 
Christ,  and  that  in  its  general  character  it  is  Byzantine. 
The  gate  is  one  of  the  many  disappointing  things  in 
Jerusalem. 


XI 

OLIVET  AND  THE  GARDEN 

The  Mount  of  Olives,  as  has  already  been  said,  is  a 
dispirited-looking  slope,  littered  with  stones,  wrinkled 
with  lines  of  limestone  walls,  and  mocked  by  a  number 
of  recent  buildings  of  defiant  ugliness.  Once  only 
during  our  stay  in  Jerusalem  did  the  poor  mean  place 
look  beautiful.  It  was  on  a  morning  when  we  found 
the  city  and  the  whole  country  round  about  deep  under 
snow.  The  sky  was  blue,  the  sun  unclouded,  and 
Olivet  a  hill  of  pure  white  from  foot  to  summit.  The 
landscape  was  marvellously  softened.  The  country  had 
lost  its  severity  and  had  become  even  tender-looking. 
The  snow  had  covered  up  the  bareness  of  the  hill, 
had  cloaked  its  poverty,  and  had  hidden  the  wretched 
crop  of  stones  which  filled  its  fields.  Even  the  new 
buildings  which  dot  the  slope  in  ungainly  blotches 
gave  less  evidence  of  their  effrontery,  while  the  deep 
green  cypresses  in  the  Garden  of  Gethsemane  and  the 
rose-yeUow  walls  of  the  city,  as  they  stood  out  against 
the  snow,  were  very  beautiful  to  see. 

There  are  now  but  few  olive  trees  growing  on  the 

hill,  but  these,  where  they  have  been  left  undisturbed, 

102 


MOUNT  OF  OLIVES 


{ 


r 


\ 


•> 


r 


J 


OLIVET  AND  THE  GARDEN 


103 


form  thickets  which,  although  scanty  and  starveling, 
yet  preserve  some  memory  of  the  charm  which  must 
have  once  belonged  to  the  spot.  Of  the  olive  tree 
Ruskin  says  it  is  well  ‘  to  have  loved  it  for  Christ's 
sake.'  ^  He  describes  '  the  pointed  fretwork  of  its 
light  and  narrow  leaves,  inlaid  on  the  blue  field  of  the 
sky  :  :  :  and  the  softness  of  the  mantle,  silver  grey, 
and  tender  like  the  down  on  a  bird's  breast,  with  which 
it  veils  the  undulations  of  the  mountains.'  It  is  this 
distant  effect  of  the  tree,  as  of  '  a  rounded  mass  or 
ball  of  downy  foliage,'  which  so  tempers  the  crudeness 
of  the  hiU  and  which  hides  so  well  its  sour  surface. 

The  view  of  Jerusalem  from  the  Mount  of  Olives 
is  a  view  of  great  fascination.  Before  one  stretches  a 
compact  city,  a  walled  town,  the  confines  of  which 
are  abruptly  marked  by  the  straight  unbroken  wall. 
Outside  the  wall  is  the  open  country,  severely  simple, 
and  deserted  save  for  a  few  wandering  goats.  Within 
is  the  complex  crowd  of  roofs  and  steeples,  of  towers, 
domes,  and  minarets  which  make  up  the  amazing  city. 
The  contrast  is  shrewdly  made,  for  from  the  foot  of  the 
wall  the  ground,  bare  as  a  desert,  slopes  down  to  the 
empty  valley  of  the  Kedron,  while  upon  the  other  side 
is  a  teeming  town  packed  with  habitations  and  with 
men.  The  general  colour  of  the  city  is  a  soft  yellowish 
grey,  a  tint  so  faint,  indeed,  that  the  place  looks  ghostly 
and  unreal.  Once  in  the  day,  and  once  only,  just  at 
the  time  when  the  sun  has  capped  the  crest  of  Olivet, 
the  city  is  golden.  The  square-cut  masonry  of  the 
Golden  Gate  makes  the  one  break  in  the  monotonous 

^  Stones  of  Venice,  vol.  iii.  p.  176, 


104 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


line  of  wall,  and  if  it  was  through  this  portal  that  Christ 
made  His  triumphal  entry  into  Jerusalem  it  is  possible 
to  picture  the  procession  winding  across  the  valley,  as  it 
would  have  appeared  to  the  old  people  of  Bethany  who 
had  followed  as  far  as  the  top  of  the  mount. 

As  may  be  supposed,  there  are  many  '  sacred  sites  * 
about  this  notable  hill.  At  the  foot  of  the  mount  is 
the  tomb  of  the  Virgin — where,  the  monks  aver,  she 
was  buried  by  the  apostles  and  where  she  lay  until  her 
assumption.  Here  also  are  the  tombs  of  her  parents. 
This  spot  is  protected  by  a  church  of  some  antiquity,  the 
greater  part  of  which  is  below  the  level  of  the  ground. 
The  church  and  its  contents  impose  a  severe  strain  upon 
the  credulous,  for  of  the  many  relics  displayed  it  is 
heartlessly  affirmed  '  not  one  is  genuine.’  On  the  hill¬ 
side  is  shown  the  exact  spot  where  Christ  wept  over  the 
city,  a  spot  ‘  still  undefiled  and  unhallowed  by  mosque 
or  church,  chapel,  or  tower. An  uneasy-looking  rock 
indicates  the  place  where  Peter,  James,  and  John  fell 
asleep  during  Christ’s  agony  in  the  garden.  Not  far 
from  it  a  fragment  of  a  column  marks  the  spot  where 
Judas  betrayed  Jesus  with  a  kiss. 

Near  the  summit  of  the  hill  is  the  Chapel  of  the 
Ascension,  which  covers  the  precise  part  of  the  earth 
last  touched  by  the  feet  of  Christ  before  He  was  carried 
into  Heaven.  More  than  that,  in  a  marble  enclosure 
is  exhibited  the  impression  of  the  right  foot  of  Christ, 
turned  southwards. 

Of  these  and  like  holy  sites  Dean  Stanley  writes  in  this 
wise :  ‘  These  localities  have,  indeed,  no  real  connection 

^  Sinai  and  Palestine,  by  Dean  Stanley,  p.  190.  (London.  1881.) 


OLIVET  AND  THE  GARDEN 


105 


with  Him.  .  .  .  The  desolation  and  degradation  which 
have  so  often  left  on  those  who  visit  Jerusalem  the 
impression  of  an  accursed  city,  read  in  this  sense  a 
true  lesson  :  “  He  is  not  here.  He  is  risen.”  ' 

At  the  foot  of  Olivet  is  the  garden  of  gardens — the 
Garden  of  Gethsemane.  There  is  no  evidence  that  the 
Gethsemane  of  the  time  of  Christ  was  a  garden  in 
the  sense  in  which  the  term  is  now  employed.  The 
Franciscan  monks  who  tend  this  little  place  have  accepted 
the  term  in  its  present  meaning  and  have  produced  a 
formal  garden  of  the  very  latest  type.  The  garden  is  a 
small  square  enclosure  surrounded  by  high  walls  of 
recent  construction,  and  is  situated  at  a  point  where 
two  roads  meet.  It  is  not  happy  in  its  placing,  for 
just  beyond  it  is  a  new  and  extravagant  Russian 
church  crowned  with  bulbous  domes,  heavily  overlaid 
with  gilt,  and  suggesting  nothing  so  nearly  as  an 
entertainment  kiosk  at  the  end  of  a  pier. 

As  to  the  genuineness  of  the  site  Professor  Dalman, 
speaking  of  Christ's  last  hours  in  the  garden,  writes  as 
follows :  ‘  His  intention  clearly  was  to  retire  where  He 
might  be  undisturbed  by  any,  even  by  the  traitor, 
until  He  should  be  ready.  He  would,  therefore,  seek 
for  the  most  secluded  spot.  This  could  not  be  found 
to  the  south  or  east  hard  by  important  public  roads, 
least  of  all  where  ''  Gethsemane  ”  is  now  shown  ;  but 
rather  to  the  north,  where  no  road  followed  the  valley, 
or  crossed  over  the  mountain.  Here  only  could  there 
be  a  garden.”  '  ^ 

At  the  present  spot  there  is  within  the  high  wall 

^  Temple  Dictionary  of  the  Bible,  p.  222.  (London.  1910.) 


io6 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


a  path  which  follows  closely  the  sides  of  the  square. 
To  this  path  the  visitor  is  restricted.  The  garden  itself 
is  in  the  centre  of  the  enclosure.  It  is  an  ordinary 
little  suburban  garden,  precisely  of  such  a  type  as 
may  be  seen,  a  hundred  times  over,  in  Brixton  or  in 
Clapham,  or  around  a  signalman's  box  by  a  quiet  rail¬ 
way  station.  It  is  laid  out  in  little  paths  and  beds  full 
of  marigolds  and  stocks  and  of  plants  in  pots.  At  the 
end  of  the  formal  plot  is  a  greenhouse — a  greenhouse  in 
Gethsemane !  The  garden  is  within  an  iron  cage  or 
fence  such  as  one  sees  at  a  zoological  collection.  The 
object  of  the  same  is  not  to  keep  any  creature  in  but 
to  keep  the  pilgrim  out.  But  for  the  iron  rails  and 
bars  the  pilgrims  would  strip  the  garden  in  a  week  and 
leave  it  barer  than  would  a  flight  of  locusts.  Every 
tree  that  overhangs  the  path  is  protected  by  strong 
wire  netting,  so  that  even  the  most  agile  pilgrim  could 
not,  by  leaping  in  the  air,  obtain  so  much  as  a  leaf. 

There  are  some  beautiful  cypresses  in  the  place,  and 
some  eight  very  ancient  oHve  trees.  No  tree  in  the  world 
can  look  so  old  as  an  olive,  and  these  few  contorted  and 
wrinkled  veterans  look  older  than  any  living  thing  I 
have  ever  come  upon.  They  present  a  morbid  realisation 
of  the  most  extreme  degree  of  senility  that  it  is  possible 
to  imagine.  They  are  so  grey,  so  bent,  so  shrivelled, 
so  sapless,  that  their  deformed  bodies  and  limbs,  covered 
as  they  are  by  horrible  outgrowths,  might  have  been 
already  dead  a  century.  Apart  from  these  infirm  old 
trees  the  garden  is  a  child's  garden  and  is  tended  with 
more  than  a  child's  devotion  and  tenderness.  The 
Franciscan  monks  who  keep  the  garden  as  it  is  are 


CORNER  OF  THE  GARDEN  OF  GETHSEMANE 


WALLS  OF  JERUSALEM  NEAR  THE  JAFFA  GATE,  SHOWING  THE  DITCH 


\ 

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A 


-i 


OLIVET  AND  THE  GARDEN 


107 


so  evidently  sincere  in  their  care  of  it,  and  so  happy  in 
the  conviction  that  it  is  what  Gethsemane  should  be, 
that  one  cannot  but  hope  that  the  learned  may  be 
wrong  and  that  this  small  quaint  retreat  marks  the 
spot  ‘  over  the  brook  Cedron,  where  was  a  garden,' 
where  Christ  was  '  exceeding  sorrowful,  even  unto 
death,'  and  where  He  begged  of  His  disciples  ‘tarry  ye 
here,  and  watch  with  me.' 

There  is  one  thing  growing  in  the  garden,  under  the 
old  olive  trees,  that  fits  it  well.  It  is  a  bush  of  rosemary. 
So  here  ‘  there's  rosemary,  that’s  for  remembrance : 
pray  you,  love,  remember.' 


XII 

TOMBS  AND  POOLS 

One  of  the  most  pleasant  and  picturesque  walks  in 
Jerusalem  is  round  the  city,  within  the  walls,  especially 
on  the  southern  side  of  the  town.  This  kind  of  desultory 
ramble,  however,  is  not  encouraged  by  any  self-respecting 
dragoman,  for  the  strict  ritual  of  a  visit  to  Jerusalem 
enforces — after  the  churches  have  been  ^  done  ' — an 
inspection  of  certain  tombs  and  pools.  These  are  not 
pleasant  places,  and  the  viewing  of  the  same  in  many 
instances  suggests  such  a  visit  as  a  sanitary  inspector 
would  be  called  upon  to  pay. 

In  the  Gospel  according  to  St.  John  it  is  written  : 
*  Now  there  is  at  Jerusalem  by  the  sheep  market  a  pool, 
which  is  called  in  the  Hebrew  tongue  Bethesda,  having 
five  porches.  In  these  lay  a  great  multitude  of  impotent 
folk,  of  blind,  halt,  withered,  waiting  for  the  moving  of 
the  water.’  This  account  suggests  a  wide  sheet  of  limpid 
water  surrounded  by  a  cloister  of  some  magnitude,  for  it 
wiU  be  noted  that  the  multitude  who  came  to  the  pool 
was  '  great.’  The  pool  of  to-day  is  far  down  in  the 
earth  at  the  bottom  of  a  pit  delved  out  of  a  deposit 
of  vague  ruins.  At  the  summit  of  the  excavation,  in 

io8 


JERUSALEM  :  FROM  THE  MOUNT  OF  OLIVES,  SHOWING  THE  GOLDEN  GATE  AND  DOME  OF  THE  ROCK 


TOMBS  AND  POOLS 


109 

place  of  a  sheep  market,  is  a  modern  laundry  with  a 
corrugated  iron  roof,  and  around  it  a  quite  extraordinary 
number  of  stockings  hanging  out  to  dry.  A  stone  stair, 
very  steep  and  narrow,  leads  down  the  side  of  the  pit 
and  finally  ends  before  a  small  cistern  or  reservoir  cut 
out  of  the  rock  and  arched  over  by  ancient  vaulting. 
In  the  cistern,  which  could  not  accommodate  a  larger 
multitude  than  five  or  six,  is  water  which  would  probably 
be  condemned  by  any  medical  officer  of  health.  This  is 
the  pool  of  Bethesda. 

Among  the  debris  through  which  the  shaft  leading  to 
the  '  Pool '  has  pierced  are  the  ruins  of  two  churches. 
The  present  church  which  stands  upon  the  spot  is  the 
ancient  and  interesting  Church  of  St.  Anne.  It  is  dedicated 
to  the  mother  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  who  is  stated  to  have 
lived  in  a  cave  which  is  still  shown  to  believers.  In  this 
cave  the  Virgin  Mary  was  born.  It  is  very  noteworthy 
that  many  of  the  sacred  sites  in  the  Holy  Land  are  in 
or  about  caves,  and,  were  these  sites  genuine,  one  could 
only  conclude  that  the  humbler  folk  at  the  time  of 
Christ  were  all  cave-dwellers. 

The  Pool  of  Siloam  is  described  by  Sir  Rider  Haggard 
as  '  an  evil-smelling  mud  hole.'  It  is  a  wretched  spot, 
among  the  disordered  ruins  of  which  have  been  dis¬ 
covered  miscellaneous  fragments  of  a  bath  house,  a 
basilica,  a  flight  of  steps,  and  a  paved  street.  Out  of 
these  fragments  it  may  be  possible  for  the  imaginative 
to  reconstruct  the  Pool  where  the  blind  man  '  went 
and  washed,'  and  even  to  conceive  that  it  was  along 
this  paved  street  that  he  felt  his  way,  tapping  with 
a  stick.  The  village  of  Siloam  is,  I  think,  the  most 


no 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE  ' 


abject  hamlet  I  can  call  to  mind.  It  is  made  up  of 
more  or  less  ruinous,  earth-coloured  houses  and  hovels 
clinging  to  an  uncharitable  slope.  At  a  distance  it 
is  not  easy  to  tell  the  dwellings  from  the  rocks,  while 
certain  of  the  ancient  tombs  of  the  place  are  turned 
into  habitations  for  the  living.  It  is  appropriate 
that  the  Leper  Hospital  should  have  been  established 
on  the  outskirts  of  this  inhuman -looking  abode  of  men. 

If  rich  in  nothing  else  Jerusalem  is  at  least  rich  in 
tombs.  Prominent  among  these  is  the  Tomb  of  David.- 
This  term  is  applied  to  a  picturesque  collection  of  ancient 
Mohammedan  buildings.  The  tomb  is  not  visible  to  the 
eye,  but  the  visitor  is  assured  that  it  exists  some¬ 
where  in  the  underground  mysteries  of  the  place.  An 
opportunity  of  verifying  this  assurance  is  not  given. 
On  the  first  floor  of  the  premises  is  the  upper  chamber, 
or  Caenaculum,  in  which  it  is  said  that  the  Last  Supper 
was  held.  The  fee  for  admission  is  from  one  to  two 
francs.  The  upper  chamber  is  a  portion  of  a  medieval 
church,  divided  in  the  middle  by  a  couple  of  columns. 
The  ceiling  is  vaulted  and  the  whole  work  is  ascribed  to 
the  fourteenth  century.  The  stone  on  which  the  disciples 
sat  when  the  Lord  washed  their  feet  is  on  exhibition. 

Fancy  has  been  very  exuberant  and  very  detailed 
in  this  quarter  of  Jerusalem,  for  near  by  are  the  house 
of  Caiaphas,  the  spot  where  Peter  was  standing  when 
he  denied  Christ,  and  the  exact  place  where  the  cock 
crew. 

Among  the  other  tombs  which  the  tourist  is  expected 
to  visit  are  the  Tombs  of  the  Kings,  the  Tombs  of  the 
Judges,  and  the  Tombs  of  the  Prophets.  These  are  all 


VIEW  FROM  INSIDE  THE  WALLS  OF  JERUSALEM,  SHOWING  THE  DOME  OF  THE  ROCK 


. 


i 


r 


/ 


TOMBS  AND  POOLS 


III 


rock  tombs  of  some  antiquity.  The  names  they  bear 
are  purely  fanciful,  for  they  have  never  afforded  a  resting- 
place  to  a  king  of  Judah,  to  a  judge  of  Israel,  or  to  any 
one  of  the  many  prophets,  greater  or  less.  The  most 
interesting  of  these  are  the  Tombs  of  the  Kings,  an  ex¬ 
tensive  series  of  rock-hewn  catacombs  which  are  believed 
to  be  the  burying-places  of  Queen  Helena  of  Adiabene 
and  her  family.  The  tombs  are  approached  by  a  wide 
staircase  cut  in  the  rock,  where  can  be  seen  the  channels 
for  conducting  water  to  the  cisterns  below.  The  cisterns 
are  in  perfect  preservation  and  serve  to  show  with  what 
ceremonial  the  burial  of  the  dead  was  carried  out  in 
the  first  century.  The  actual  tombs  are  entered  through 
an  elaborately  carved  portal,  and  as  there  are  receptacles 
for  over  seventy  bodies  the  underground  chambers  are 
far  extending.  There  are  both  rock  shelves  for  bodies 
and  shaft  tombs.  By  far  the  most  attractive  feature 
of  this  burying-place  is  afforded  by  the  fact  that  one 
entrance  of  the  tomb  is  closed  by  a  large  round  stone 
which  is  still  in  place,  in  a  sloping  groove  cut  out  of  the 
rock.  It  serves  to  make  very  clear  the  expression  '  And 
they  found  the  stone  rolled  away  from  the  sepulchre.’ 

A  most  conspicuous  tomb  stands  in  the  vaUey  of 
the  Kedron.  It  is  called  the  Tomb  of  Absalom.  It 
is  a  strange-looking  monument  composed  of  a  square 
building  decorated  by  pillars  with  Ionic  capitals  sup¬ 
porting  a  Doric  architrave.  Above  this  rises  a  curious 
pagoda-like  steeple  of  stone,  the  summit  of  which  would 
seem  to  be  carved  to  imitate  an  opening  flower.  The 
monument  is  ascribed  to  the  Maccabaean  period.  Who 
lies  buried  in  this  place  is  unknown,  for  the  curious 


II2 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


structure  does  certainly  not  mark  the  resting-place  of 
the  adventurous  Absalom,  nor  can  it  be  that  pathetic 
memorial  he  erected  for  himself.  The  story  of  Absalom’s 
burying  and  of  his  monument  is  told  in  the  Bible  in  the 
following  words  :  '  And  they  took  Absalom,  and  cast 

him  into  a  great  pit  in  the  wood,  and  laid  a  very  great 
heap  of  stones  upon  him  :  and  all  Israel  fled  every  one 
to  his  tent.  Now  Absalom  in  his  lifetime  had  taken 
and  reared  up  for  himself  a  pillar,  which  is  in  the  king’s 
dale  :  for  he  said,  I  have  no  son  to  keep  my  name  in 
remembrance  :  and  he  called  the  pillar  after  his  own 
name  :  and  it  is  called  unto  this  day,  Absalom’s  place.’ 
Unfortunately  for  the  hope  to  be  never  forgotten  it 
cannot  be  that  the  time-battered  cenotaph  the  tourist 
is  dragged  to  stare  at  is  any  relic  of  Absalom’s  Place  in 
the  King’s  Dale. 


■.An 


THE  TOMBS  OF  THE  KINGS,  JERUSALEM 


r\y 


\ . 


XIII 

THE  MOANING  BY  THE  WALL 

The  most  living  thing  in  Jerusalem  is  the  spectacle 
provided  at  the  Jew’s  Wailing-place,  just  outside  the 
Temple  area,  on  certain  days  of  the  week.  It  is  a 
spectacle,  dramatic  and  affecting.  It  expresses  in  one 
slight  but  vivid  tableau  a  calamitous  episode  in  the 
history  of  the  city.  It  serves  to  keep  in  remembrance 
the  great  sorrow  of  a  nation.  It  signifies  the  aspiration 
of  a  people — if  not  materially,  at  least  by  sentiment  and 
symbol. 

The  Hebrews  who  possessed  themselves  of  the  eastern 
corner  of  the  Mediterranean  were  a  brave,  determined, 
and  adventurous  people.  In  their  impetuous  advance 
they  carried  everything  before  them.  They  established 
themselves  in  the  city  of  Jerusalem  and  there  built  on 
the  height  their  great  Temple.  This  Temple  held  all 
that  was  most  sacred  in  the  religion  of  Israel.  It  was 
the  heart  of  the  nation,  the  depository  of  its  hopes 
and  its  ambitions,  the  one  rallying  point  of  clansmen 
who  were  losing  other  ties  of  brotherhood. 

Then  came  the  onslaught  of  a  stronger  power ;  the 
grip  upon  the  height  was  loosened  ;  the  people  wavered 

113  X 


1 14  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

and  fell  back  from  the  walls,  so  that  in  a  while  all  was 
lost.  The  Temple  was  destroyed  ;  the  sacred  things 
were  scattered  to  the  winds,  and  the  people  were  driven 
away  like  raided  cattle.  They  stiU,  however,  remained 
a  people.  They  were  still  bound  together  by  a  common 
faith  and  common  traditions.  They  still  held  the  spot 
where  the  Temple  had  stood  to  be  the  one  most  holy  on 
earth.  Thus  it  is  that  for  centuries  past  pious  Jews 
have  gathered  without  the  wall  of  their  desecrated 
sanctuary,  and  have  there  bewailed  the  downfall  of 
Jerusalem,  and  have  there  prayed  for  the  restoration 
of  their  once  great  kingdom. 

The  lamentable  litany  is  ever  the  same.  The  weary 
chant  has  never  changed.  Still  without  the  Temple 
wall  the  cry  goes  up : 

*  For  the  palace  that  lies  desolate: 

For  the  walls  that  are  overthrown : 

For  our  great  men  who  lie  dead.’ 

The  prayer  is  poured  forth  to  the  Redeemer  of  Zion 
to  gather  again  the  children  of  Jerusalem,  so  that  the 
kingdom  may  return  to  the  Holy  Hill  and  comfort 
may  come  upon  those  who  mourn  over  the  city.  This 
is  the  dirge  of  the  Wailing-place,  the  outcasts’  lamen¬ 
tation,  the  moaning  of  the  wall.  It  is  to  be  heard  to 
this  very  day,  and  yet  eighteen  hundred  years  have 
passed  since  the  Temple  was  finally  destroyed.  Was 
there  ever  such  a  grief  as  this  !  Was  ever  a  wrong  so 
long  remembered  :  has  ever  a  hope  so  long  survived ! 

The  Wailing-place  is  reached  by  many  devious  ways : 
by  stairs  slimy  with  dirt,  by  vaulted  passages,  by 
rambling  and  unclean  lanes.  At  the  end,  a  narrow 


THE  MOANING  BY  THE  WALL  115 

paved  alley  is  come  upon,  on  the  east  side  of  which  is 
a  colossal  wall  sixty  feet  high.  This  is  one  of  the  outer 
sustaining  walls  of  the  Temple  area,  and  is  as  near  to  the 
site  of  the  ancient  Temple  as  the  Jew  allows  himself  to 
go.  It  is  a  wall  like  a  cliff,  sheer  and  immense.  It 
is  as  the  bastion  of  an  unassailable  fortress.  The  lower 
courses  are  made  up  of  gigantic  blocks  of  ancient  stone 
which  were  laid  down,  the  learned  say,  in  the  days 
of  Herod.  They  are  stones,  brown  by  reason  of  great 
age,  in  the  crannies  of  which  many  a  green  shrub  and 
many  an  adventurous  weed  are  growing. 

At  the  foot  of  the  appalling  wall  a  number  of  Jews, 
both  men  and  women,  are  huddled.  They  mutter  mel¬ 
ancholy  sentences  from  greasy  books  ;  they  pray  ;  they 
weep  ;  they  kiss  the  waU ;  they  touch  the  wall  with 
their  hands  as  if  there  were  comfort  in  the  feel  of  it ; 
they  rest  their  heads  against  it  as  a  watcher  leans  against 
a  closed  door.  Most  of  them  are  old,  while  all  seem 
poor.  They  look  dejected,  tired,  and  despairing.  There 
is  one  very  ancient  ragged  Jew  in  the  crowd  who  is  the 
embodiment  of  hopelessness.  His  face  is  white  and 
lined,  his  eyes  seem  sightless.  He  wears  a  flapping 
felt  hat,  beneath  which  straggle  two  thready  side-locks. 
He  is  clad  in  a  long  black  coat  and  vague  leg-endings. 
His  lamentation  has  degenerated  into  a  mere  peevish 
whine.  He  neither  protests  nor  petitions.  He  merely 
moans  as  would  one  who  had  beaten  upon  a  shut  portal 
for  fifty  years.  Near  him  is  a  younger  man,  a  Spanish 
Jew,  well  clad,  tall,  and  upright,  with  a  face  of  great 
refinement — the  face  of  a  visionary.  He  speaks  his 
litany  with  insistence  and  assurance,  and  prays  as  one 


ii6  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

who  knows  that  his  prayer  at  least  is  heard.  It  is  he, 
and  such  as  he,  who  keep  alive  the  spark  of  hope  among 
the  grey  and  scattered  ashes. 

It  is  an  extraordinary  and  impressive  picture. 
This  remnant  of  a  once  mighty  and  arrogant  people 
clamouring  outside  the  wall  of  their  lost  Temple  ;  this 
persistent  prayer  droned  out  for  wellnigh  two  thousand 
years  :  the  waU  so  terrific,  so  impassive,  so  impossible, 
while  those  who  beat  upon  it,  seeking  to  come  in,  are 
so  feeble  and  so  forlorn.  As  well  might  one  conceive 
the  picture  of  a  solitary  man  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  a 
mountain  praying  that  it  may  be  moved!  What  an 
astounding  realisation  it  offers  of  a  faith  that  would 
make  a  precipice  to  crumble,  of  a  hope  that  would 
cleave  a  barrier  of  stone,  of  a  longing  that  can  survive 
the  denial  of  centuries  1 

The  passer-by  may  ask,  in  the  words  of  the  Book  of 
Nehemiah,  ‘What  do  these  feeble  Jews?  Will  they 
revive  the  stones  out  of  the  heaps  of  the  rubbish  ?  *  And 
the  answer  is  that  among  the  heaps  of  rubbish,  among 
the  piled-up  ruins  of  long  ages,  among  the  wreckage 
left  by  war,  earthquake,  and  fire  there  are  some  who 
can  still  see  the  glow  of  light  on  the  stones  that  marks 
the  spot  where  the  Ark  of  the  Lord  had  stood. 

The  grandeur  and  pathos  of  the  scene  are  enhanced 
rather  than  diminished  by  the  crowd  of  tourists  who 
gather  here  each  Friday  afternoon,  who  giggle  and 
chaff  and  punctuate  the  solemn  litany  by  the  clicking 
of  their  kodaks. 


XIV 


BETHLEHEM 

Some  five  and  a  half  miles  south  of  Jerusalem  stands  the 
town  of  Bethlehem,  the  first  halting-place  on  the  long 
trail  that  leads  into  the  land  of  Egypt.  There  is  between 
Jerusalem  and  Bethlehem  a  road  which  those  who  are 
reckless  in  the  use  of  terms  call  a  carriage  road  and 
pronounce  to  be  good.  It  is  in  strict  fact,  a  slouching 
and  unsteady  road,  raw  and  rough,  which  is  indicated 
by  a  haze  of  hot  dust  in  the  summer  and  by  a  tract  of 
furrowed  mud  in  the  rains.  Imagination  has  endowed 
this  way  with  picturesqueness.  Is  it  not  a  path  of 
consummate  peace,  wending  through  '  a  land  which  the 
Lord  thy  God  careth  for,’  across  green  hills  and  by 
sheltering  valleys  drowsy  with  the  babble  of  streams  ? 
In  reality  it  traverses  a  poor,  bare,  and  colourless 
country,  unfriendly  and  unlovable,  where  the  painfully 
cultivated  fields  are  littered  with  stones,  where  rough 
walls  take  the  place  of  hedges,  and  where  the  land  is 
treeless  but  for  a  few  mendicant  olives.  Indeed,  a  chilled 
upland  in  Derbyshire,  where  stone  walls  and  a  thorn 
bush  may  be  the  only  features  in  the  landscape,  is  to 
be  preferred  to  the  country  towards  Bethlehem. 

117 


ii8  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

It  is  hard  to  find  in  the  Holy  Land  any  of  that  charm 
of  scenery  which  certain  writers  will  persist  in  bestowing 
upon  it.  '  Those  who  describe  Palestine  as  beautiful/ 
says  one  who  knew  the  country  well,  '  must  have  either 
a  very  inaccurate  notion  of  what  constitutes  beauty  of 
scenery,  or  must  have  viewed  the  country  through 
a  highly -coloured  medium/ 

Some  four  miles  along  the  road,  and  by  the  border 
of  it,  is  the  Tomb  of  Rachel.  This  is  a  modem  Moslem 
sanctuary  made  of  white  washed  plaster  freckled  with  the 
scribblings  of  devout  pilgrims.  It  is  a  crude  building,  a 
mere  rustic's  memorial.  Apparently  from  early  Christian 
days  tradition  has  associated  this  spot  with  the  burial- 
place  of  the  chosen  wife  of  Jacob.  It  will  be  remembered 
that  Rachel,  '  the  beautiful  and  well  favoured,'  died  by 
the  roadside  after  she  had  given  birth  to  her  second  son, 
and  that  '  as  her  soul  was  in  departing '  she  called  his 
name  Benoni,  but  his  father  called  him  Benjamin. 
Jacob's  account  of  her  dying  is  pathetically  simple.  He 
says :  ‘  And  as  for  me,  when  I  came  from  Padan,  Rachel 
died  by  me  in  the  land  of  Canaan  in  the  way  when  yet 
there  was  but  a  little  way  to  come  into  Ephrath  :  and 
I  buried  her  there  in  the  way  of  Ephrath  ;  the  same 
is  Bethlehem.'  And  now  the  pillar  which  Jacob  set 
up  upon  her  grave  is  replaced  by  this  poor  besmirched 
mausoleum,  and,  sadder  still,  men  learned  in  the  Holy 
writings  decline  to  accept  the  site  as  authentic,  affirming 
that  ‘  no  identification  is  at  present  possible.'  ^ 

Still  nearer  to  the  town  is  David's  Well,  represented 
at  the  present  moment  by  three  rock-hewn  cisterns  filled 

^  The  Temple  Dictionary  of  the  Bible.  (London.  1910.) 


BETHLEHEM 


119 


with  fetid  water,  which  same  is  described  in  the  guide¬ 
books  as  being  ‘  highly  dangerous.'  There  is  every 
reason  to  suppose  that  these  tanks  occupy  the  site  of 
the  ‘  well '  which  was  beloved  by  David.  David,  when 
roving  the  country  at  the  head  of  a  band  of  freebooters, 
found  himself,  on  a  certain  occasion,  very  hard  pressed. 
The  weather  was  hot — for  it  was  the  harvest-time— 
and  things  were  going  ill.  The  chronicler  writes  :  '  And 
David  longed,  and  said.  Oh  that  one  would  give  me  drink 
of  the  water  of  the  well  of  Beth-lehem,  which  is  by  the 
gate  ! '  To  him,  as  a  boy,  the  spring  would  be  very 
familiar,  for  he  was  the  son  of  a  well-to-do  farmer  in 
the  town  and  must  have  stopped  at  the  well  many  a 
time  when  coming  back  to  Bethlehem  with  his  sheep. 
Unfortunately,  on  the  occasion  of  David’s  utterance, 
Bethlehem  was  held  by  the  Philistines,  but  three  of 
the  band — hardy  ruffians  no  doubt — overheard  their 
chief’s  cry  and  at  once  quietly  determined  to  give  him 
what  he  longed  for. 

It  was  a  dangerous,  if  not  a  desperate,  venture ;  but 
the  three  took  the  hazard.  They  cut  their  way  through 
the  enemy’s  lines  ;  they  reached  the  well,  and  they 
brought  a  pitcher  of  water  back  in  triumph  to  the  camp. 
One  can  imagine  with  what  pride  they  would  place  it 
before  their  captain — water  from  the  familiar  spring  which 
was  by  the  gate.  A  bloody  raid  it  may  have  been,  and 
all  of  the  three  may  have  been  stiff  with  wounds,  but 
they  had  got  the  pitcher  with  hardly  a  drop  from  it  spilt. 
David’s  action  when  he  took  the  pitcher  and  when  he 
looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  three  gallant  lads,  who  had 
cheerfully  risked  their  lives  to  give  him  one  moment’s 


120 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


pleasure,  must  have  brought  a  lump  into  the  throats  of 
all  who  stood  by.  He  would  not  drink  the  water,  much 
as  he  longed  for  it,  but  emptied  the  pitcher  on  to  the 
ground  and,  with  dry  lips,  said  that  since  the  draught 
had  been  obtained  at  the  jeopardy  of  three  loyal  lives, 
to  drink  it  would  be  to  drink  the  blood  of  his  bravest 
friends.  Is  there  any  nobler  picture  than  this  of  the 
spirit  of  comradeship  among  men  ? 

Round  about  Bethlehem  the  country  is  broken  up  into 
a  number  of  low  hills  of  bleak  limestone,  on  the  ridge  of 
one  of  which  the  town  is  placed.  It,  therefore,  stands 
high  so  that  it  can  be  seen  from  afar  off.  It  is  a  modern 
town  unredeemably  ugly  and  built  of  stone  dug  from  the 
gaunt  flanks  of  the  hill  it  crowns.  The  slopes  of  this  ridge 
are  hacked  into  a  multitude  of  step-like  terraces  for  vines, 
supported  by  interminable  duU  walls.  It  is  a  drab  city 
of  drab  houses  on  a  drab  ridge,  as  monotonous  in  colour 
and  as  cheerless  looking  as  a  pile  of  dry  bones.  No  doubt 
when  the  flowers  are  in  bloom  and  when  the  leaves  are  on 
the  vines  the  place  is  less  ashen,  but  it  would  need  a  garden 
of  the  Hesperides  to  make  this  city  of  dry  bones  live. 
Such  is  Bethlehem,  the  dreary  town  with  its  foreground 
of  stones  and  its  background  of  limestone  hills.  Viewing 
the  place  from  a  distance  one  cannot  suppose  that  there 
are  any  children  in  it  or  that  its  cold-blooded  walls  can 
ever  re-echo  to  the  laughter  of  women  or  the  singing 
of  men. 

The  one  thing  of  interest  in  the  town  is  the  birth¬ 
place  of  Christ.  The  Church  of  the  Nativity  is  of  great 
size,  and  there  is  little  reason  to  doubt  that  it  covers  the 
spot  where  stood,  according  to  the  traditions  of  the 


(Note  small  entrance,  door  in  cent  •  oi  picture) 


BETHLEHEM 


I2I 


time,  the  famous  village  inn.  The  actual  place  in  which 
it  is  claimed  that  Christ  was  born  is  a  cave — a  quite 
impossible  cave.  As  has  already  been  said  (p.  109) 
many  of  the  sacred  places  in  Palestine  are  located 
in  caves.  The  devout  are  asked  to  believe  that  the 
mother  of  the  Virgin  Mary  lived  in  a  cave,  that  the 
Virgin  herself  was  born  in  a  cave,  that  the  Annun¬ 
ciation  took  place  in  a  cave,  and  that  the  angels  appeared 
to  the  shepherds  in  a  cave.  The  reason  of  this  predilec¬ 
tion  for  caves  is  not  far  to  seek.  The  dwelling-house  in 
the  East — especially  the  dwelling-house  of  the  poor — 
is  and  ever  has  been  a  fragile  and  transitory  structure. 
It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  in  olden  times  it  was 
less  unstable  than  the  crumbling  fabric  which  makes  up 
the  house  of  the  village  of  to-day.  Indeed,  a  writer 
in  the  ‘  Temple  Dictionary  ’  says :  ‘  In  the  time  of 
our  Lord  the  external  appearance  of  the  houses  of 
the  middle  and  lower  classes  must  have  been  much 
what  it  is  at  present.’  It  was  only  by  constant 
propping  up  of  ceilings  and  daubing  of  walls  that 
the  house  was  prevented  from  falling  into  decay. 
The  flat  roof,  as  soon  as  it  became  cracked  in  the  heat, 
was  ready  to  let  through  the  rains  of  the  winter,  and 
when  the  walls  of  rubble  and  earth  became  waterlogged 
the  days  of  the  house  were  numbered.  Within  a  few 
years  the  neglected  home  would  become  a  heap  of  ruins. 
Now  it  was  not  until  some  three  hundred  years  after 
the  death  of  Christ  that  any  serious  attempt  was  made 
to  discover  the  sites  that  were  associated  with  the 
events  of  His  life.  Long  before  the  lapse  of  that  time 
the  deserted  village  would  have  become  a  vague  heap 


122 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


of  amorphous  earth,  the  Carpenter^s  cottage  at  Nazareth 
would  have  crumbled  into  dust,  and  the  village  inn 
at  Bethlehem,  with  its  stables  and  its  mangers,  after 
three  centuries  of  wind  and  rain,  of  moth  and  rust, 
of  thieves  that  break  in  and  of  marauders  that  search 
for  fuel,  would  have  vanished  as  completely  as  if  it  had 
never  been.  If  there  chanced  to  be  a  cave  in  or  near 
the  obliterated  town  it  would  be,  and  would  remain, 
the  one  ancient  object  in  the  place,  the  subject  of 
the  old  men’s  gossip  and  of  the  young  men’s  invention  ; 
and  if  it  should  happen  that  some  religious  recluse  had 
established  his  home  in  the  cavern  it  may  be  assumed  that 
he  would  not  fail  to  make  it  fit  some  detail  of  the  great 
drama  that  was  ever  in  his  mind.  Thus,  as  says  Dean 
Stanley,  ‘  the  moment  that  the  religion  of  Palestine 
feU  into  the  hands  of  Europeans,  it  is  hardly  too  much 
to  say,  that,  as  far  as  sacred  traditions  are  concerned, 
it  became  a  religion  of  caves.’ 

The  Church  of  the  Nativity  is  a  great  basilica  erected 
by  the  Emperor  Constantine  in  a.d.  330.  It  seems  to 
have  been  extensively  remodelled  some  two  hundred 
years  later  and  has  been,  like  other  churches,  the  subject 
of  many  destructive  ‘  restorations.’  Still,  there  remains 
a  building  of  such  extreme  antiquity  that  it  can  claim  to 
be  Hn  all  probability  the  most  ancient  monument  of 
Christian  architecture  in  the  world.’  ^  No  church  looks 
less  like  a  church  externally  than  does  this  basilica  of  the 
Nativity.  Indeed,  the  unguided,  if  wandering  through 
Bethlehem  in  search  of  the  church,  might  pass  the 
building  many  a  time  without  a  suspicion  that  it  was 

^  Stanley,  loc.  cit. 


BETHLEHEM 


123 


the  place  they  sought.  Around  a  paved  square  that 
might  be  a  parade-ground  is  a  heavy  mass  of  buildings 
made  up  of  frowning  walls,  high  up  on  the  face  of  which 
are  a  few  narrow  windows  heavily  barred.  One  looks 
in  vain  for  a  spire  or  a  dome,  for  a  porch  or  a  cloister, 
for  a  window  which  would  be  fitting  to  a  chancel 
or  an  aisle.  On  the  parapet  of  the  wall  is  a  bell, 
but  it  looks  like  an  alarm-bell.  The  place  indeed 
would  inevitably  be  mistaken  for  either  a  fortress  or 
a  prison. 

In  one  angle  of  this  mass  of  masonry  there  is,  on  the 
level  of  the  ground,  a  hole  in  the  wall,  an  entry  so  small 
and  low  that  one  has  to  stoop  to  pass  through  it.  This 
is  the  door  of  the  church,  although  it  has  all  the  appear¬ 
ance  of  the  sally-port  in  a  stronghold.  The  reason  of  the 
narrow  door  is  fear  of  the  Moslems  ;  while  the  reason  for 
the  church  that  is  outwardly  a  citadel  is  the  fact  that, 
year  after  year,  it  has  waited  breathlessly  for  attacks 
from  the  hosts  of  the  unbeliever.  It  has  not  waited 
in  vain,  but,  by  virtue  of  the  high  waU  and  the  narrow 
door,  it  has  held  its  own.  It  must  be  some  two  hundred 
years  ago  since  the  Turks  stripped  the  lead  off  the  roof 
to  make  the  same  into  bullets.  It  was  a  nefarious  act, 
for  the  lead  in  question  had  been  given  by  King 
Edward  IV  of  England  for  the  repairing  of  the  church, 
at  which  time  Philip  of  Burgundy  provided  the  pine 
wood  for  the  like  good  object. 

Within  the  walls  and  behind  the  narrow  door  there 
has  been  much  fighting  among  the  representatives 
of  the  Church  of  Christ :  the  result,  at  the  moment, 
being  a  sullen  truce  which  leaves  the  building  in  the 


124 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


joint  occupation  of  the  Greeks,  the  Latins,  and  the 
Armenians.  As  at  any  moment  the  ministers  of  God 
may  be  seized  with  a  passion  to  murder  their  brethren 
in  the  faith,  a  Turkish  soldier,  fully  armed,  stands  on 
duty  in  the  little  chapel  which  professes  to  be  the  actual 
place  where  Christ  was  born.  This  is  a  picture  to 
contemplate  —  a  Mohammedan  soldier  keeping  watch 
over  the  spot  where  the  shepherds  found  ‘  the  babe 
lying  in  a  manger.' 

The  basilica  is  an  immense  square  chamber,  bare  as 
an  empty  ballroom.  It  consists  of  a  nave  separated  from 
two  aisles  by  a  double  row  of  pillars,  forty  in  number. 
These  columns  are  monoliths  of  yellow-brown  stone  and 
are  surmounted  by  Corinthian  capitals.  From  the  ceiling 
of  the  nave  hang  lamps  in  elongated  red  bags  which  look 
like  immense  gouttes  of  blood  about  to  drop  from  the 
roof.  On  the  walls  are  faint  remains  of  the  wondrous 
mosaics  upon  which  the  artists  of  Manuel  Comnenos 
laboured  in  the  latter  half  of  the  twelfth  century.  It  is 
still  possible  to  see  something  of  the  beautiful  arcades 
they  designed,  in  which  were  curtained  altars,  something 
of  the  wondrous  plants  they  dreamed  about  bearing 
incredible  flowers  and  fantastic  leaves  and  of  the  little 
company  of  seven  ghostly  people  who  are  aU  that  are 
left  on  the  walls  of  the  ancestors  of  Christ.  The  east  end 
of  the  basilica,  including  the  transept  and  the  choir,  is 
shut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  building  by  a  modern  wall 
erected  by  the  Greeks,  who  have  converted  the  portion 
thus,  isolated  into  a  chapel.  This  chapel  is  very  full  of 
ornament.  Its  elaborately  decorated  screen,  its  carved 
seats,  its  crosses,  its  lamps,  its  candlesticks,  its  hanging 


BETHLEHEM  125 

balls,  its  pictures,  and  its  images  give  it  the  air  of  an 
overcrowded  curiosity  shop. 

From  the  chapel  a  flight  of  narrow  steps  descend 
into  the  Grotto  of  the  Nativity.  In  this  underground 
chamber,  buried  as  it  is  a  fathom  or  more  deep  and 
accessible  only  by  stairs,  it  is  claimed  that  Christ  was 
born.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  the  place  as  a 
stable,  or  to  imagine  that  under  any  condition  it  could 
ever  have  been  put  to  that  use.  The  Bible,  moreover, 
makes  no  mention  of  a  cave,  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  states  that  it  was  in  a  house  that  the  wise  men  found 
the  young  Child  with  Mary  His  mother. 

The  cave  is  about  the  size  and  shape  of  a  railway 
corridor  carriage,  being  thirty-three  feet  long  by  eleven 
feet  wide  and  ten  feet  in  height.  It  has  a  cove  roof,  is 
lined  with  stiff  painted  canvas  and  is  furnished  as 
a  chapel.  It  is  lit  only  with  lamps,  which  are  said 
to  be  thirty-two  in  number.  The  actual  place  of  the 
Nativity  is  a  recess  just  above  the  level  of  the  ground, 
precisely  like  a  modern  fire  place  without  a  grate. 
Lamps  hang  in  the  recess,  while  on  the  hearth  is  a 
metal  star  of  some  magnitude  which  was  purchased 
in  Vienna  in  1852  to  replace  one  that  was  stolen. 
In  a  small  cell  leading  out  of  the  main  grotto  is  a  ledge 
upon  which  the  manger,  according  to  the  authority  of 
the  church,  once  rested.  The  little  place  has  of  course 
its  altar.  The  manger  itself  is  said  to  be  lodged  in  the 
church  of  Santa  Maria  Maggiore  in  Rome. 

A  complex  subterranean  passage,  connected  with  the 
Crypt  of  the  Nativity,  contains  a  curious  and  miscellaneous 
collection  of  sacred  oddments,  such,  for  example,  as  the 


126 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


Chapel  of  the  Innocents  where  sundry  children  were  slain 
by  the  order  of  Herod,  the  spot  where  Joseph  received 
the  command  of  the  Angel  to  flee  into  Egypt,  the  tomb  of 
St.  Jerome,  the  cave  in  which  he  lived,  and  the  graves  of 
certain  of  his  pupils  both  male  and  female. 

I  had  the  fortune  to  witness  a  service  in  this  Arabian 
Night  Chapel  of  the  Nativity.  I  saw  the  ceremony  from 
the  stair — the  solitary  spectator.  A  number  of  Franciscan 
monks,  tonsured  and  sandalled  and  clad  in  brown  frocks, 
entered  the  chapel  and  at  once  knelt  down  facing  the 
niche  where  the  star  was  laid.  They  seemed  to  have  crept 
out  of  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  for  they  were  as  unreal- 
looking  as  a  company  of  gnomes.  They  hummed  a  dreamy 
litany  in  tones  which  rose  and  fell  with  the  rhythm 
of  a  wave.  The  voices,  coming  out  of  the  cave,  sounded 
hollow  and  unnatural,  while  the  utterances  were  those 
rather  of  an  incantation  than  a  chant.  I  felt  that  I  was 
witnessing  the  ritual  of  a  ghostly  sabbath,  and  that  if  I 
stirred  the  whole  strange  assembly  would  vanish.  Seen 
through  the  doorway  at  the  foot  of  the  stair  this  little 
lamp-lit  company  of  kneeling  men,  in  the  attitude  of  the 
adoring  Magi  of  an  old  altan  piece,  in  their  medieval 
dress,  with  their  tapers  and  missals,  formed  a  scene  out  of 
the  days  of  the  Middle  Ages.  One  seemed  to  be  looking 
upon  an  ancient  picture,  the  figures  of  which  had  come 
to  life.  The  light  which  lit  the  faces  of  the  monks, 
throwing  their  features  into  sharp  relief,  came  from 
unseen  lamps,  and,  as  viewed  from  the  stair,  might  have 
poured  through  an  opening  in  the  cave  from  the  setting 
sun  of  five  centuries  ago. 


XV 

THE  COUNTRY  OF  RUTH 

An  excellent  view  of  the  surrounding  country  can  be 
obtained  from  a  point  on  the  ridge  just  beyond  the 
outskirts  of  Bethlehem.  At  one's  feet  an  open  undu¬ 
lating  land  stretches  away  to  the  heights  of  Moab,  a 
land  almost  bare  of  trees,  much  partitioned  by  stone 
walls,  and  devoid  of  any  fascination  except  the  one  of 
wide  expanse.  The  near  hills  are  sage  green  in  colour, 
shaded  with  brown ;  the  lower  fields  are  a  brighter 
green,  being  alive  with  budding  corn  ;  while  on  the 
uplands  are  far-extending  pastures  for  sheep. 

The  cornfields  were  the  scene  of  the  picturesque  idyll 
of  Boaz  and  Ruth,  while  the  grass-lands  are  the  fields  of 
the  shepherds  where  the  angel  came  with  *  good  tidings  of 
great  joy '  to  the  keepers  of  the  sheep.  These  fields  are 
probably  little  changed  since  ‘  the  days  when  the  judges 
ruled  '  and  when  the  loyal-hearted  Ruth  came  out  to 
glean.  It  was  down  this  very  slope  that  Boaz,  ‘  the 
mighty  man  of  wealth,'  must  have  strolled  to  his  lands 
in  the  cool  of  the  evening.  He  would  carry  a  staff  and 
be  followed  by  a  servant.  On  reaching  the  cornfields 
he  would  greet  the  reapers  in  courtly  fashion  with  the 

127 


128 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


words  *  The  Lord  be  with  you/  while  they,  lifting  up 
their  faces  streaming  with  toil,  would  reply  heartily 
*  The  Lord  bless  thee/  Then  the  great  man's  eyes 
would  fall  upon  the  figure  of  a  solitary  woman  glean¬ 
ing,  and  would  note  that  she  was  a  stranger,  and  that 
she  was  small,  womanly,  and  very  graceful. 

In  the  valley  below  the  ridge  is  a  little  drab  village 
in  a  thicket  of  olive  trees.  But  for  a  muster  of  these 
trees  here  and  there  the  whole  expanse  would  be  very 
bleak.  Some  way  across  the  low  hills  is  the  great  rift 
in  the  earth  which  marks  the  valley  of  the  Jordan, 
while  on  the  horizon  are  the  mountains  of  Moab  which 
stand  up  against  the  sky  like  a  long  lilac-blue  bank  as 
level  as  a  wall. 

Looking  across  this  featureless  country,  so  poverty- 
stricken,  so  miserly,  and  so  threadbare,  one  cannot  but 
ask :  Is  this  the  '  glorious  land,'  the  land  '  that  floweth 
with  milk  and  honey,'  ‘  the  good  land,  the  land  of  brooks 
of  water,  of  fountains  and  depths  that  spring  out  of  valleys 
and  hills '  ?  Is  this  the  land  that  is  sung  about  in  the 
‘  Song  of  songs,  which  is  Solomon's '  ?  Is  there  a  single  spot 
in  the  whole  wide  country  to  which  the  conceit  would 
apply — *  thine  eyes  are  like  the  fishpools  in  Heshbon,  by 
the  gate  of  Bath-rabbim '  ?  Is  this  the  'delightsome 
land '  '  where  there  is  no  want  of  anything  that  is  in 
the  earth '  ? 

None  will  doubt  that  there  was  a  time  when  the 
country  was  luxuriant  and  flourishing  and  worthy  of  the 
brave  language  the  writers  of  old  have  bestowed  upon  it. 
A  later  time  came,  however,  when  the  land  was  to  fall 
upon  evil  days.  The  Bible  is  eloquent  as  to  the  griev- 


THE  COUNTRY  OF  RUTH 


129 


ousness  of  the  coming  disaster  and  is  aglow  with  imagin¬ 
ation  when  the  woes  that  are  to  be  are  foretold.  The 
country,  as  the  old  script  words  it,  is  the  country  of  the 
scourge,  the  pit,  and  the  snare.  Its  cities  shall  be  smitten 
and  its  towns  deserted  ;  strangers  shall  devour  the  land ; 
its  inhabitants  shall  melt  away ;  the  highways  shall 
be  waste  ;  the  wayfaring  man  shall  cease.  The  earth 
shall  reel  to  and  fro,  the  sky  shall  be  darkened,  the 
heavens  rent,  and  the  end,  when  it  comes,  shall  be  '  as 
a  bitter  day.' 

In  fulfilment  of  this  lurid  forecast  the  Promised 
Land  has  been  for  centuries  ravaged  by  war  and  torn 
by  internal  dissensions.  It  has  been  plundered  and  laid 
waste.  Its  inhabitants  have  been  blotted  out,  and,  as 
a  final  calamity,  the  country,  sick  unto  death,  has  fallen 
into  the  baneful  care  of  Turkey.  Forests  have  been 
recklessly  cut  down  and  woods  rooted  up.  The  rainfall 
has  in  consequence  diminished  so  that  the  land  has 
dried  up.  Vineyard  terraces  have  fallen  into  ruin  and 
water  channels  into  decay.  Obsolete  processes  of  culti¬ 
vation  have  been  maintained,  the  people  have  been 
harassed  and  oppressed  until  there  is  little  joy  left 
in  them.  Progress  has  become  unthinkable  and  enter¬ 
prise  a  crime.  The  methods  of  the  Turk  might  have 
been  foreshadowed  in  these  words  from  the  Book  of  the 
Chronicles  of  the  Kings  of  Israel :  '  Ye  shall  .  .  .  fell  every 
good  tree,  and  mar  every  good  piece  of  land  with  stones.' 
One  can  imagine  that  over  the  dumb,  lethargic  country, 
with  its  bare  pastures  and  empty  sheep-folds,  there 
comes  this  cry  from  out  of  the  mighty  past :  '  Thy 
shepherds  slumber,  O  king  of  Assyria.' 


K 


XVI 


THE  PLAIN  OF  JEEICHO 

Some  little  way  beyond  Jerusalem,  over  the  Mount  of 
Olives  and  on  the  Jericho  road,  lies  Bethany.  It  was  a 
village  that  figured  often  in  the  life  of  Christ — a  lovable 
place  of  quiet  memories.  It  was  the  home  of  Martha  and 
Mary,  of  that  Martha  who,  like  the  neurotic  woman  of 
to-day,  was  troubled  about  many  things.  It  was  the 
scene  of  the  raising  of  Lazarus.  Placed  as  it  is,  on  the 
spur  of  Olivet,  it  might  well  have  been  a  village  of  great 
charm  in  the  days  which  made  its  name  for  ever  memor¬ 
able.  It  is  now  represented  by  a  few  wretched  hovels, 
grey,  filthy,  and  ruinous — a  slum  detached  from  a  city,  a 
pitiless  man-hating  spot.  The  houses  piled  up  on  the 
hill  would  seem  to  be  as  empty  as  a  heap  of  skulls,  their 
staring  windows  sightless  as  the  eye  sockets  of  the  dead. 
The  inhabitants  are  reputed  to  be  the  dirtiest  and  most 
importunate  in  Palestine.  This  reputation  is  maintained. 
The  hamlet  stands,  in  all  the  effrontery  of  shameless 
squalor,  at  the  head  of  a  dejected  valley.  Being  on  the 
verge  of  the  desert  of  Judea  the  view  southward  from 
poor  Bethany  is  very  grievous. 

Accompanied  by  a  yapping  crowd  of  children,  who 

130 


BETHANY. 


THE  PLAIN  OF  JERICHO 


131 

are  extravagantly  unclean,  the  visitor  is  taken  to  the 
house  of  Martha  and  Mary.  This  is  a  mere  penance 
observed  by  pilgrims  and  others,  for  the  spurious  building 
may  as  well  be  called  the  house  of  Ananias  and  Sapphira. 
He  is  finally  invited  by  a  dozen  begrimed  hands  to 
enter  the  tomb  of  Lazarus,  this  sepulchre  being  the  joy 
of  Bethany.  The  children  smile  through  their  dirt  as 
they  reiterate  the  invitation,  for,  seemingly,  they  know 
that  the  burying-place  of  Martha's  brother  has  changed 
its  site  from  time  to  time.  It  is  possible  that  at  this 
point  the  tourist  rebels,  for  there  is  little  object  in 
descending  into  a  foul  street  cellar  for  the  purpose  of 
being  shown  a  grave  in  which  Lazarus  did  not  lie. 

The  distance  from  Jerusalem  to  Jericho  is  measured, 
not  by  miles,  but  by  hours.  It  is  gauged  by  endurance 
rather  than  by  mere  yards.  People  speak  of  the  passage 
as  a  journey  of  four  hours.  This  standard  of  time  is 
based  upon  the  capabilities  of  two  shrivelled  horses  when 
dragging  a  Jerusalem  cab  between  the  places  named. 
The  cab  is  professedly  a  victoria  and  might  have  been 
used  in  a  technical  school  to  demonstrate  to  a  class 
every  form  and  variety  of  repair  known  in  the  coach- 
builder's  art.  The  survival  of  the  fittest  decides  which 
cab  shall  be  raised  to  the  sublime  honour  of  the  Jericho 
road.  The  horses  who  are  responsible  for  the  equation 
of  time  exhibit  no  signs  of  life  until  the  moment  for 
starting  arrives.  Up  to  that  point  they  have  the 
appearance  of  zoological  specimens  which  have  been 
parsimoniously  stuffed  and  whose  internal  framework 
is  giving  way.  They  seem  also  to  be  moth-eaten. 

As  to  our  driver  it  was  difficult  to  judge  of  either 


132 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


the  character  of  the  journey  or  of  the  man  by  his  dress. 
He  wore  loose,  blue  Turkish  trousers,  completed  by  very 
florid  socks  which  were,  no  doubt,  a  bequest  from  a 
colour-blind  tourist.  On  his  feet  were  shining  galoshes. 
His  body  was  covered  by  a  tweed  greatcoat  of  English 
make,  the  cloth  of  which  was  so  lacking  in  places 
that  the  lining  was  apparent.  It  looked  almost  like 
a  relief  map,  where  an  attempt  had  been  made  to  show 
the  distinctions  of  land  and  sea  by  the  use  of  acids. 
The  coat,  being  possessed  of  no  buttons,  was  attached 
to  the  body  by  means  of  a  bright  orange  scarf  wrapped 
round  the  waist.  The  mysterious  man's  head,  neck, 
and  shoulders  were  enveloped  in  a  black  woollen 
shawl  beneath  which  a  crimson  tarboosh  was  visible. 
On  the  way  to  Jericho  he  seemed  to  be  bored  even  to 
nausea,  and  to  be  anxious  to  avoid  looking  at  either 
the  road  or  the  adjacent  country  as  if  he  disliked 
them  so.  He  appeared  to  be  limp  with  fatigue,  to 
take  part  in  the  journey  under  protest,  and  to  share 
with  the  horses  some  deeper  feeling  than  a  mere  lack  of 
enthusiasm.  I  began  to  think  that  there  was  something 
in  the  malediction  '  Oh,  go  to  Jericho  !  ' 

The  actual  road  is,  for  a  Turkish  road,  good,  or  at 
least  to  a  great  extent.  In  places  it  degenerates  into 
a  ploughed  track  or  breaks  out  boldly  into  a  glissade  of 
slippery  rock.  There  are  passages  where  the  traveller 
thinks  it  safer  to  walk.  There  are  intervals  of  rest 
when  repairs  in  the  harness  or  in  the  carriage  are  being 
made.  I  noticed,  in  this  connection,  that  our  driver 
could  accomplish  most  things  by  means  of  telegraph 
wire  and  string. 


THE  PLAIN  OF  JERICHO 


133 


As  to  the  country  traversed  it  is  a  weary  desert,  grey 
with  melancholy,  bare  to  pitifulness,  and  silent  as  a 
land  of  the  dead.  It  is  not  a  desert  of  level  sand  that 
stretches  away  to  the  horizon  like  a  vast  unrippled  sea. 
In  such  a  plain  there  is  at  least  the  solemn  impression  of 
immensity,  the  sense  of  man  as  a  minute  speck  creeping 
across  a  sphere  revolving  through  space.  This  desert  of 
Judea  is  a  mean  country,  a  waste  of  innumerable  hills 
that  come  rolling  in  from  the  unseen  like  the  waves  on  a 
shallow  beach.  They  are  hills  that  are  dead.  Their  bones, 
in  the  form  of  grey  rocks,  show  through  the  tattered  cover¬ 
ing  of  threadbare  grass  and  wiry  scrub.  The  whole  place 
is  treeless.  With  the  exception  of  a  few  goats  and  a  goat¬ 
herd  there  is  not  a  sign  of  life  by  the  wayside  ;  with 
the  exception  of  two  humble  khans  there  is  not  a  sign  of 
a  dwelling.  We  would  seem  to  pass  '  through  a  land  of 
deserts  and  of  pits,  through  a  land  of  drought,  and  of 
the  shadow  of  death,  through  a  land  that  no  man  passed 
through,  and  where  no  man  dwelt.' 

Over  and  over  again  the  road  labours  upwards  to 
the  ridge  of  a  hill  and  then  flounders  down  into  a 
valley,  long  and  winding  and  as  dismal  as  a  ditch.  The 
monotony  of  the  way  is  unspeakable.  It  is  a  road  upon 
which  no  progress  is  made,  for  after  an  hour  of  toiling 
the  traveller  believes  that  he  has  come  to  the  spot  he 
passed  an  hour  ago.  On  reaching  a  height,  with  a 
hope  that  the  journey's  end  may  be  in  view,  there  are 
only  more  hills  to  be  seen,  while  in  the  valleys  the 
track  turns  so  often  that  the  traveller  despairs  of  ever 
getting  out.  This  must  be  some  such  road  as  Christian 
toiled  along  in  Bunyan's  '  Pilgrim's  Progress.'  Here  is 


134 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


the  Hill  of  Mocking,  and  here  the  Valley  of  Deceit,  while 
at  this  parting  of  paths  may  have  stood  Mr.  Facing-both- 
ways.  As  we  went  on  our  way  we  met  a  few  donkeys 
loaded  with  panniers,  a  few  dignified  and  hooded  figures 
mounted  on  horses,  a  woman  on  a  donkey,  and  a  shep¬ 
herd  with  his  sheep.  The  goats  of  the  country  are 
mostly  away  from  the  road,  appearing  as  black  dots  on 
the  pallid  slope.  The  small  round  clumps  of  scrub 
made  a  curious  effect,  for,  being  of  a  bluish-grey  tint, 
they  looked  like  puffs  of  smoke  on  the  scorched  hillside. 

Some  half-way  down  to  Jericho  we  reached  a  small 
caravanserai  called  the  Inn  of  the  Good  Samaritan. 
Its  position  serves  well  to  illustrate  the  ancient  and 
familiar  parable.  While  we  were  there  a  carriage  drew 
up  with  a  party  from  Jerusalem,  burdened  with  the 
presence  of  a  man  of  fluent  knowledge.  Bunyan  would 
have  named  him  '  Mr.  Knowing-all-things.*  He  told  his 
friends,  with  compassionate  condescension,  that  the 
building  was  not  the  actual  inn  to  which  the  Samari¬ 
tan  brought  the  man  who  had  fallen  among  thieves, 
but  that  it  was  built  on  the  site  of  that  tavern.  Having 
delivered  himself  of  this  precious  item  of  research  he 
called  for  a  bottle  of  pale  ale. 

The  inn  is  on  high  ground  and  in  a  shallow  pass. 
From  an  eminence  near  by  is  a  wonderful  view  across 
this  lamentable  desert  of  a  thousand  hills.  There  is 
not  even  a  bush  to  be  seen  and  not  a  sign  of  a  habita¬ 
tion.  The  far-away  heights  are  lilac  in  colour,  the 
nearer  are  a  bluish  grey,  while  those  at  hand  have  the 
tint  of  mouldy  hay.  The  hills  upon  the  horizon  may 
be  in  the  Garden  of  Eden,  but  those  at  one's  feet  are 


DOUBTING  CASTLE,  ON  THE  ROAD  TO  JERICHO 


THE  PLAIN  OF  JERICHO 


135 


so  cold,  bleached,  and  sickly  that  assuredly  the  sap  of 
the  world  of  aU  green  things  has  been  drained  out 
of  them. 

On  a  neighbouring  mound  are  the  ruins  of  an 
ancient  castle  which,  once  upon  a  time,  commanded 
the  pass  through  this  sorry  country.  It  might  very 
well  be  that  Doubting  Castle  of  Bunyan's  dream,  where 
dwelt  the  giant  Despair,  but  a  guide-book  says  that 
it  is  almost  certainly  the  Tour  Rouge  built  by  the 
Templars.  It  is  a  castle  of  rugged  stone  with,  on 
the  least  steep  side  of  it,  a  moat  cut  out  of  the 
sohd  rock.  There  are  still  three  vaulted  chambers 
left  where  men-at-arms  must  have  yawned  forth  their 
melancholy  at  the  end  of  every  weary  day,  and,  with 
closed  eyes,  have  recalled  the  English  villages  where  they 
had  rollicked  as  boys,  the  water  meadows,  the  garden 
of  hollyhocks,  the  little  church  and  the  cawing  rooks, 
and  the  woods  dappled  with  primroses.  There  is  a 
passage,  too,  in  the  castle  leading  to  a  winding  stair 
that  mounts  to  the  look-out.  Many  a  burly  Templar 
will  have  edged  his  way  up  these  stairs  to  sicken  his 
heart  for  the  hundredth  time  by  the  contemplation  of 
these  mocking  hiUs.  The  stronghold,  on  the  occasion 
of  our  visit,  was  garrisoned  by  two  donkeys  and  six 
frivolous  kids.  In  the  haU,  which  was  probably  the 
guard-room,  was  an  abject  man  into  whose  very  bones 
the  misery  of  the  place  had  evidently  eaten.  He  sat 
on  a  stone,  with  bowed  head — a  picture  of  Job  when 
the  worst  fell  upon  him. 

Beyond  the  castle  of  Giant  Despair  the  scenery 
changes.  It  ceases  to  be  merely  monotonous  and 


136  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

becomes  aggressive  and  fierce.  The  road  tumbles  along 
by  the  brink  of  a  hideous  chasm  with  rust-brown  sides. 
In  the  gulley  at  the  bottom  of  the  abyss  is  a  thread  of 
a  brook,  half  hidden  by  rushes.  In  the  opinion  of 
some  this  is  the  Valley  of  Achor,  and,  as  the  dungeon¬ 
like  ravine  opens  upon  the  Plain  of  Jordan,  it  may 
well  be  called,  in  the  words  of  Hosea,  '  a  door  of  hope.’ 

There  are  caves  in  the  walls  of  this  awful  valley,  in 
many  of  which  hermits  live.  From  the  road  these 
caves  look  like  the  holes  the  sand  martin  makes  in  a 
bank.  Clinging  also  to  the  face  of  the  cliff  is  a  white 
building  which  seems  to  have  oozed  out  of  a  fissure  in 
the  rock  and  to  have  congealed  into  a  drop  of  masonry. 
It  is  the  Monastery  of  St.  George,  a  sanctuary  of  the 
Greek  Church  and  a  diseased  product  of  religion.  It  is 
probably  the  most  ridiculously  placed  building  in  the 
world,  as  well  as  the  most  useless.  It  must  have  been 
the  outcome  of  a  disordered  mind,  for  it  is  just  such 
an  impossible  fabric,  suspended  over  an  abyss,  as  is  met 
with  in  the  landscapes  of  delirium. 

While  we  were  looking  at  the  monastery  from  the 
hiU  on  the  other  side  of  the  chasm,  a  monk  came  out 
of  the  building  and  stood  on  a  small  platform  or  balcony 
that  projected  from  the  wall.  Had  he  taken  another 
step  he  would  have  dropped  out  of  sight  into  the  crevice 
which  lay  fathoms  deep  below.  His  coming  was  sur¬ 
prising,  for  the  place,  although  evidently  a  habitation, 
could  not  be  associated  with  the  idea  of  living  men. 
He  seemed  to  gaze  with  interest  in  our  direction — a 
being  as  forlorn  as  a  solitary  man  on  a  derelict  ship 
watching  a  liner  steam  out  of  sight.  To  all  appearance 


THE  VALLEY  OF  ACHOR,  ON  THE  WAY  TO  JERICHO,  SHOWING  THE  MONASTERY  OF  ST.  GEORGE 


4 

*  .  .1 


■ '  s 


4# 


THE  PLAIN  OF  JERICHO 


he  belonged  so  little  to  this  busy  world  of  to-day  that 
he  might  have  been  a  creature  of  another  planet  which 
had  drifted  so  near  to  the  earth  as  to  be  separated  only 
by  the  narrow  gap  that  prevented  the  two  spheres  from 
touching.  It  would  have  been  quite  appropriate  if  the 
impossible  house,  the  cliff,  and  the  great  strange  land 
beyond  it  had  drifted  away  and  passed  out  of  sight, 
taking  with  it  the  creature  who  had  been  near  enough 
to  the  earth  to  have  a  glimpse  of  its  inhabitants. 

To  some  of  the  hermits'  holes  a  faint  path — a  mere 
hazardous  ledge — could  be  seen  to  lead  ;  others  would 
appear  to  be  unapproachable.  It  is  said  that  in  ancient 
days  these  caves  were  hiding-places  for  men ;  if  so 
the  terror  from  which  they  fled  must  have  been  too 
dreadful  to  conceive.  No  mere  fear  of  death  could  have 
driven  men  to  take  refuge  in  the  cracks  of  this  pitiless 
ravine.  These  black  holes  on  the  face  of  the  cliff  serve 
to  express  the  extremest  panic  of  the  pursued  as  well 
as  the  relentlessness  of  the  pursuer,  for  it  is  said 
*  Though  they  dig  into  hell,  thence  shall  mine  hand 
take  them.'  As  for  the  crazy  hermits  and  the  inhuman 
monks,  these  words  of  Isaiah  may  very  well  be  put  into 
their  gibbering  mouths  :  ‘  We  grope  for  the  wall  like  the 
blind,  and  we  grope  as  if  we  had  no  eyes  :  we  stumble  at 
noonday  as  in  the  night ;  we  are  in  desolate  places  as 
dead  men.' 

At  last  the  Plain  of  Jericho  comes  into  view.  It  is 
very  flat,  very  wide,  very  featureless.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  plain  are  the  Mountains  of  Moab.  They  form  a 
sheer  rampart  of  bare  rock,  heavily  scored  from  peak 
to  base.  When  the  sun  falls  full  upon  it  this  great 


138  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


mountain  palisade  is  wonderful  to  see.  Its  cliffs  and 
slopes  may  then  be  of  as  bright  a  pink  as  the  Malmaison 
carnation,  or  of  as  faint  a  blue  and  grey  as  a  wreath 
of  smoke  from  a  wood  fire,  while  every  ridge  and  seam, 
every  gorge  and  buttress,  is  marked  out  sharply  by 
shadows  of  pure  blue.  One  knows  that  these  hills  are 
of  massive  stone,  but  at  a  distance  they  would  seem 
to  be  fashioned  out  of  luminous  clouds,  and  it  is  thus 
that  they  form  so  vivid  a  contrast  with  the  solid  plain — 
which  is  dull  drab  whenever  it  is  not  dull  brown,  except 
at  one  place  where  a  bight  of  the  Dead  Sea  is  inlaid 
like  a  plaque  of  silver.  Of  the  Jordan,  or  of  the  course 
that  it  follows,  there  is  not  the  least  indication. 

The  descent  to  the  plain  is  steep.  That  part  of  the 
flat  which  reaches  to  the  foot  of  the  hills  is  wan,  barren, 
and  stony.  The  first  vegetation  come  upon  takes  the 
form  of  a  hungry  rabble  of  thorn  bushes,  bleached  of 
colour  and  singularly  unfriendly.  The  Bible  speaks  of 
*  the  prickling  briar  :  the  grieving  thorn.’  No  better 
title  can  be  given  to  this  frontier  of  the  desert  of  hills 
than  The  Country  of  the  Grieving  Thorn. 

The  new  Jericho  is  a  pleasant  modern  village,  pleasant 
mainly  by  contrast,  for  although  it  is  both  disordered 
and  dirty  it  is  very  green.  It  is  a  drowsy  oasis  of  red 
roofs  and  white  walls,  with  an  unexpected  chapel  and  a 
surprising  mosque,  with  many  palms  and  cypresses,  with 
gardens  of  tropical  luxuriance,  and  with  flowers  enough 
to  outweigh  many  wretched  hovels  and  some  display  of 
corrugated  iron.  Here  are  orange  bushes  and  banana 
palms,  lanes  like  those  of  Devon,  vines  and  oleanders, 
bamboos  and  pepper  trees,  grass  without  stint,  and 


THE  PLAIN  OF  JERICHO 


139 


hedges  of  the  most  profligate  green.  With  such  solace 
it  matters  little  if  on  one  side  rise  mountains  of  stone, 
while  on  the  other  side  lies  a  plain  the  deadness  of 
which  is  only  relieved  by  blocks  and  pillars  of  arid  clay. 

The  climate  of  Jericho  is  enervating,  and  in  the 
summer  intolerably  hot.  The  circumstances  under 
which  King  David  gave  the  advice,  'tarry  at  Jericho 
until  your  beards  be  grown,’  were  peculiar  and  must 
not  be  considered  as  of  general  application,  for  a  worse 
residence  for  developing  youth  it  would  be  hard  to  find. 
The  whole  place  is  unkempt,  savagely  luxuriant,  reck¬ 
less,  and  spendthrift.  It  is  as  if  Nature  had  planned 
here  a  wild  orgy  in  the  midst  of  a  sterile  desert. 

The  ancient  Jericho — the  city  of  the  old  Testament — 
lies  to  the  west  of  the  modern  town  with  its  up-to-date 
hotels.  It  stands  at  the  foot  of  the  hills  by  the  side  of 
a  generous  spring.  This  spring,  known  as  the  Sultan’s 
Spring,  is  represented  by  a  cheery  little  river  which 
comes  rushing  and  romping  out  of  the  hill  like  a  stream 
of  noisy  children  bursting  out  of  school.  It  is  a  marvel¬ 
lous  spectacle,  for  it  bubbles  forth  with  such  freshness 
that  it  might  come  from  a  glacier,  while  in  fact  it  issues 
from  a  mountain  of  hot  limestone  as  unlikely  to  give 
forth  water  as  a  heap  of  ashes.  The  stream  falls  into 
a  clear  pool  flashing  with  fish,  then  tumbles  headlong 
over  a  miU-wheel,  and  finally  flows  across  the  country 
in  a  hundred  channels  which  keep  green  the  gardens 
of  the  plain. 

The  makers  of  tradition  call  this  pool  Elisha’s  Spring, 
and  maintain  that  these  were  the  waters  that  he  '  healed  ’ 
by  means  of  a  new  cruse  full  of  salt.  If  this  be  so  then 


140  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

the  hiU  at  the  back  must  have  been  the  one  he  was 
climbing  when  the  children  of  Jericho — as  careless  in 
manners  then  as  they  are  now — called  after  him  '  Go  up, 
thou  bald  head/  It  is  probable  that  modern  sympathy 
will  be  entirely  with  the  children,  for  the  love  of 
*  mocking '  is  ever  strong  in  them,  and  it  may  be  sus¬ 
pected  that  the  appearance  of  the  dour  prophet  lent 
itself  to  ridicule.  No  doubt  the  children  were  afraid  of 
him  when  they  met  him  in  the  streets,  but  when  he  was 
well  up  the  hillside  the  temptation  to  '  mock  ’  must 
have  been  irresistible.  The  boys  would  begin  calling 
him  names  first  and  then  the  girls  would  join  in.  It 
is  a  pity  that  '  he  turned  back,  and  looked  on  them,  and 
cursed  them,’  for  the  panic  produced  by  the  she-bears, 
as  the  terrified  little  people  fled  back  shrieking  to  the 
city  gate,  must  have  been  very  dreadful.  It  would  have 
been  quite  enough  if  he  had  merely  turned  back  and 
looked  on  them. 

It  was  up  this  very  hill  that  the  two  spies  must  have 
crept  in  the  dark  after  they  had  escaped  from  Jericho. 
They  got  away  from  the  city  by  means  of  a  rope  that 
dropped  from  Rahab’s  window  into  the  moat  at  the 
foot  of  the  city  wall.  It  was  in  these  very  mountains 
that  they  hid  themselves  for  three  days,  while  the 
town  guard,  after  having  carefully  shut  the  gate,  were 
fatuously  pursuing  them  towards  the  ford  of  the  Jordan. 
From  their  cave  on  the  hill  the  spies,  lolling  at  ease, 
must  have  seen  the  perspiring  soldiers  stumbling  over 
the  plain,  now  rushing  forwards  and  now  creeping  on 
tiptoe  with  uplifted  swords  towards  a  bush,  then  sur¬ 
rounding  the  bush  and  finally  clubbing  it  with  frightful 


EXCAVATIONS  OF  ANCIENT  JERICHO 


THE  PLAIN  OF  JERICHO 


141 

blows.  They  must  have  laughed  till  they  were  tired 
to  see  the  gesticulations  of  the  befogged  pursuers,  the 
pointing  this  way  and  that,  the  occasional  crawling 
on  the  ground,  and  the  constant  mopping  of  puzzled 
brows.  The  spies  must  have  seen  them  also  hobble 
back  to  the  city  in  the  evening,  limp  with  fatigue,  and 
may  have  imagined  the  kind  of  lies  they  were  telling, 
with  such  graphic  gestures,  to  the  folk  who  met  them 
at  the  gate.  ‘ 

It  is  just  by  the  fountain  that  ancient  Jericho  was 
situated.  The  site  is  most  commanding.  It  can  be  well 
understood  that  ‘  the  situation  of  this  city  is  pleasant,'  for 
with  its  lavish  supply  of  water  it  must  have  sparkled 
with  fountains  and  pools  and  have  been  surrounded  by 
a  very  Garden  of  God,  together  with  fields  fuU  of  corn 
and  hemp,  and  meadows  green  with  luscious  pasture. 
It  was  a  walled  city  of  some  size,  a  royal  city,  a  military 
garrison  that  held  the  pass  to  the  uplands  of  Judea. 
From  a  strategical  point  of  view  its  position  was  of  the 
strongest.  It  commanded  the  plain,  it  held  the  road 
westward,  it  had  behind  it  an  inaccessible  rock,  and 
yet  it  was  up  the  pass  at  the  back  of  the  town  that 
Joshua  and  his  army  ascended  on  their  way  to  Ai. 

A  good  deal  of  the  ancient  city  has  been  excavated 
by  an  Austrian  society.  Those  who  have  carried  out 
the  work  have  had  need  to  dig  deep.  The  foundations 
and  walls  of  very  many  houses  have  been  laid  bare 
as  well  as  much  of  the  city  wall.  The  result  is  a  series 
of  little  squares  like  a  collection  of  cattle-pens.  The  city 
wall  itself  is  of  considerable  substance  and  of  no  mean 
height.  It  is  built  of  sun-baked  bricks  very  like  those 


142 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


which  can  still  be  seen  in  the  humbler  houses  of  the 
present-day  town.  It  is  happily  within  the  power  of 
anyone  to  indicate  the  spot  on  the  wall  where  the  two 
spies  were  let  down  by  a  cord.  It  is  possible  to  stand 
at  the  foot  of  the  wall  and,  looking  up  at  the  parapet, 
to  imagine  the  site  of  Rahab's  house,  ‘  for  her  house 
was  upon  the  town  wall,^  and  even  to  picture  the  little 
window  that  looked  towards  the  river,  in  which  the  spies 
advised  Rahab  to  bind  the  line  of  scarlet  thread  which 
was  to  prove  the  saving  of  her  life. 

From  any  one  of  the  great  mounds  that  mark  the 
site  of  the  old  city  there  is  a  view  across  the  plain,  and 
beyond  the  Jordan  to  the  hills  of  the  land  of  Moab. 
One  of  these  mountains  must  be  Mount  Nebo,  and  one 
of  these  peaks  '  the  top  of  Pisgah,  that  is  over  against 
Jericho.'  It  was  from  this  height  that  Moses,  at  the 
end  of  his  long  journeying,  saw  not  only  ‘  the  plain  of 
the  valley  of  Jericho,  the  city  of  palm  trees,'  but  also 
‘  all  the  land  of  Judah  unto  the  utmost  sea.'  It  is 
somewhere  in  the  valley  among  these  hills  that  the 
great  leader  of  men  lies  buried ;  '  but  no  man  knoweth 
of  his  sepulchre  unto  this  day.'  The  burying-place 
is  worthy  of  the  man,  for  the  mountains  are  glorious, 
their  fascination  is  inexpressible,  so  that  in  all  the  world 
there  can  be  no  grander  monument  to  the  dead. 

The  plain  that  stretches  before  Jericho  was  the 
scene  of  one  of  those  momentous  events  in  the  history 
of  the  world  which  have  mightily  affected  the  destinies 
of  nations.  This  event  was  the  passage  of  the  Israel¬ 
ites  over  the  Jordan  and  thence  into  the  land  of 
Canaan  under  the  leadership  of  Joshua. 


THE  PLAIN  OF  JERICHO 


143 


Standing  on  the  spot  where  the  regal  city  of  Jericho 
once  rose  it  is  possible  to  conceive  the  astounding  picture 
this  migration  of  men  must  have  presented.  The  whole 
plain  was  in  alarm.  The  gates  of  Jericho  were  shut, 
so  that  '  none  went  out,  and  none  came  in.'  The  streets 
were  still,  for  a  great  terror  had  fallen  upon  the  people 
of  the  town.  There  hung  over  the  place  the  hush  of 
impending  disaster.  There  was  something  moving  to¬ 
wards  the  city  that  neither  walls  nor  arms  could  resist. 
Those  who  stood,  pale  and  breathless,  on  the  ramparts 
could  see  an  enormous  horde  of  men  moving  slowly 
down  the  slopes  of  the  mountains  of  Moab.  They  came 
along  steadily  and  silently  like  a  lava  stream.  The 
dark  mass  passed  over  the  Jordan,  as  if  no  river  had 
a  place  there,  and  then  began  to  pour  across  the  plain 
in  the  direction  of  the  awe-stricken  city.  It  was  an 
army  such  as  had  never  before  been  seen  ;  an  army 
of  forty  thousand  men  '  prepared  for  war,'  followed 
by  the  women  and  the  children,  the  old  people,  the 
cattle,  and  the  sheep. 

The  plain  was  black  with  men,  and  with  such  men  as 
Jericho  knew  not  of.  For  no  less  than  forty  years  these 
people  had  been  wandering  homeless  in  the  wilderness. 
They  were  clad  in  rough  garments,  or  in  the  tatters  of 
clothing  that  had  been  carried  with  them  out  of  Egypt 
two  score  years  before.  There  were  few  of  the  fighting 
men  that  had  not  been  born  on  the  trail.  There  were 
few  who  could  remember  any  home  but  the  desert. 
None  except  the  old  men  and  the  old  women  were 
able  to  recall  the  land  from  which  they  came.  They 
were  a  wild,  unkempt,  terrific  folk,  an  army  in  rags,  an 


144 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


army  of  stern,  solemn-faced  men  who  'marched  gravel}^ 
and  in  silence.  Nothing  broke  the  stillness  of  the 
procession  but  the  awful,  heart-throttling  tramp  of 
over  forty  thousand  feet. 

The  people  of  Jericho,  who  looked  from  the  wall,  could 
see  that  this  fearsome  column  creeping  towards  them  was 
headed  by  men  who  were  carrying  a  mysterious  chest 
overlaid  with  gold,  and  that  they  bore  it  upon  staves 
passed  through  four  rings  of  gold,  two  rings  on  one 
side  and  two  on  the  other.  This  was  the  Ark  of  the 
Covenant  of  the  Lord  of  all  the  earth.  Before  the 
gold  chest  went  seven  priests  in  strange  attire  who 
held  in  their  hands  trumpets  made  of  rams’  horns. 
It  was  not  until  the  outskirts  of  the  trembling  city 
were  reached  that  the  quiet  of  the  advancing  host 
was  broken,  for  it  was  then  that  the  seven  blew  upon 
their  trumpets  ;  and  as  the  sound  rose  shrilly  in  the  van 
of  the  great  battalion  the  people  of  the  city  were  made 
dumb  with  horror. 

Of  aU  sieges  the  siege  of  Jericho  is  one  of  the  most 
haunting  to  read  about.  There  was  no  rush  of  storm¬ 
ing  parties,  no  clatter  of  scaling  ladders,  no  crash  of 
battering  rams,  nothing  but  the  spectacle  of  forty 
thousand  grim  men  advancing  in  silence  across  a  plain, 
in  the  wake  of  a  golden  chest. 

But  although  the  folk  of  the  doomed  town  were 
already  so  ‘  faint  ’  from  alarm  that  there  did  not 
‘remain  any  more  courage  in  any  man,’  there  was 
something  yet  to  come  which  was  more  dreadful  stiU. 
The  ghastly  army  made  no  approach  to  the  gates,  but, 
for  seven  never-ending  days  of  sickening  suspense,  that 


WALLS  OF  ANCIENT  JERICHO 


THE  PLAIN  OF  JERICHO 


145 


awful  company  kept  up  an  ominous  march  around  the 
town,  tramping  ever  in  a  silence  that  was  terrible  to  bear 
and  that  was  rent  only  by  the  blast  of  the  seven  horns. 
It  was  the  mystery  and  solemnity  of  the  procession 
that  had  so  dread  an  effect,  together  with  a  horror 
of  the  unknown  something  that  lay  within  the  golden 
chest. 

At  last,  at  a  given  signal,  there  arose  from  the 
beleaguering  crowd  a  shout  like  that  of  the  bursting 
of  a  dam,  a  shout  yelled  forth  from  forty  thousand 
throats,  a  sound  that  rattled  upon  the  rocks  like 
thunder,  that  stilled  every  beast  and  bird  in  the  plain, 
and  that  brought  the  walls  of  the  city  to  the  ground  ; 
for  it  was  terror  that  made  good  the  siege  of  Jericho. 


XVII 


THE  JORDAN  AND  THE  DEAD  SEA 

The  interest  that  is  associated  with  the  Plain  of  Jericho 
is  not  wholly  dependent  upon  either  the  unwonted  aspect 
of  the  place  or  upon  its  strange  and  tragic  story,  for 
above  all  these  things  the  spot  is  one  of  the  strange  places 
of  the  earth.  Strange  in  this — that  it  is  the  lowest  stretch 
of  land  on  the  surface  of  the  world.  The  Jordan  and 
the  Dead  Sea  lie  in  a  long  hollow  in  the  earth's  crust,  in 
a  depression  that,  if  viewed  from  the  planet  Mars,  could 
be  conceived  to  resemble  a  dent  on  a  golf  ball.  Thus  it 
is  that  the  town  of  Jericho  is  placed  more  than  twelve 
hundred  feet  below  the  level  of  the  open  sea.  Thus  it  is 
that  Jericho,  of  all  human  habitations,  is  the  town  which 
is  farthest  from  Heaven  ;  while  those  who  live  there  in 
the  summer  need  not  to  be  reminded  that  it  is  nearest 
to  the  red-hot  centre  of  the  earth. 

The  road  to  the  Jordan  is  described  in  the  language 
of  the  country  as  one  and  a  half  hours  long.  This  may  be 
interpreted  as  about  six  miles.  Estimates  of  distance 
must  vary  in  this  particular  spot  because  there  is  no 
road  to  the  Jordan.  There  is  a  flat  between  the  village 
and  the  stream,  the  way  across  which  is  optional,  being 

146 


THE  JORDAN  AND  THE  DEAD  SEA  147 


influenced  by  the  depth  of  the  dust  in  the  sununer,  by 
the  disposition  of  the  mud  in  the  rains,  and  by  the 
caprice  of  the  driver  at  other  times.  The  undesigned 
track  has  neither  been  improved  nor  seriously  disturbed 
since  the  time  when  Joshua  passed  that  way.  The 
course  followed  by  the  cab  of  the  tourist  is  necessarily 
erratic  and  may  as  well  be  regarded  as  identical  with 
that  taken  by  the  deluded  town  guard  of  Jericho  when 
they  were  pursuing  the  two  spies  towards  the  river. 

In  crossing  the  plain  it  will  be  noticed  that  it  presents 
a  greater  variety  of  colour  than  could  be  imagined  when 
it  was  viewed  from  the  western  hills.  The  soil,  such  as 
it  is,  is  cinnamon-brown,  but  here  and  there  in  the 
distance  are  drifts  of  dun-yellow  or  of  oyster-shell  grey. 
The  place  is  covered  with  scrub  which  has  as  little  life 
in  it  as  a  covering  of  lichen.  Curious  to  say,  there  are 
a  number  of  camels,  with  their  calves,  '  grazing  '  in  this 
plain.  What  they  find  to  live  on  in  this  pasture  of 
Tantalus  is  known  only  to  themselves.  As  the  vege¬ 
tation  is  as  crisp  as  a  cinder,  and  is  of  any  colour  but 
green,  the  waste  may  be  a  camels'  purgatory  such  as 
Dante  would  have  imagined,  or  it  may  be  regarded 
as  a  pastoral  scene  conceived  in  the  spirit  of  sarcasm. 
If  the  camel  were  an  animal  capable  of  appreciating 
humour,  its  feeding-ground  may  be  compared  to  the 
table  of  papier  mach6  chickens  and  hams  upon  which 
people  feast  riotously  at  a  pantomime. 

A  solitary  tree  in  the  plain,  said  to  be  a  terebinth 
tree,  is  pointed  out  as  marking  the  site  of  Gilgal,  but, 
owing  to  the  bumpiness  of  the  road,  the  tree  was  difficult 
to  define,  for,  as  the  cab  rocked  to  and  fro,  it  expanded 


148  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


hazily  into  many  trees.  There  stands  also  a  Greek 
monastery  in  the  flat,  which  presents  a  picturesque 
appearance.  It  is  a  house  of  rest  for  Russian  pilgrims 
on  their  way  to  the  bathing-place  of  the  Jordan. 

Before  the  river  is  reached  there  is  a  curious  country 
to  pass  through,  made  up  of  hillocks  and  oddly  shaped 
masses  of  whitish  clay.  A  drearier  riverside  could 
hardly  be  conceived  except  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
cement  works.  As  certain  of  these  clay-heaps  are  square 
in  shape,  or  are  moulded  by  the  rain  into  the  outlines 
of  walls,  pillars,  or  tombs,  the  whole  district  looks  like 
the  ruin  of  a  cemetery  of  giants.  All  along  by  the  side 
of  the  still  invisible  stream  is  a  thicket  of  bush  made 
up  of  poplars,  tamarisks,  and  willows,  struggling  out  of 
an  untidy  undergrowth. 

The  sacred  river  reveals  itself  in  a  sudden  and 
dramatic  fashion,  for  there  is  nothing,  even  up  to  the 
last,  to  suggest  its  whereabouts.  The  visitor,  alert 
with  curiosity,  sees  a  muddy  stream,  the  opaque  waters 
of  which  are  a  sordid  brown,  running  between  banks 
of  slippery  mud  of  the  same  tint.  The  stream  is  swift 
and  silent,  and  at  the  bathing-place  is  about  the  width 
of  the  Cam  at  Cambridge.  This  particular  spot  on  the 
Jordan  is  stated  by  the  imaginative  to  be  the  place  of 
the  baptism  of  Christ,  to  be  the  scene  of  the  legend  of 
St.  Christopher,  and  to  be  the  ford  where  the  host  of 
Israel  crossed  under  Joshua  to  the  taking  of  Jericho. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  river  is  a  little  wood  which  is 
pleasant  to  look  upon  by  reason  of  its  eager  vitality,  for 
the  stream  itself  is  sullen  and  indifferent,  with  as  little 
spirituality  about  it  as  there  is  about  a  gulley  in  a  mud 


JORDAN 


’  t. 


I 


1 


THE  JORDAN  AND  THE  DEAD  SEA  149 

flat.  It  would  seem  to  be  part  of  the  ritual  of  the  visit 
to  dip  a  finger  into  the  stream,  in  order  that  the  traveller 
may  say  that  he  has  washed  in  the  Jordan,  and,  further¬ 
more,  to  fill  a  beer  bottle  from  the  sacred  flood  to  carry 
away  with  him. 

From  the  Jordan  the  journey  is  continued,  in  the 
same  casual  fashion  as  regards  roads,  to  the  Dead  Sea. 
The  land  about  the  Dead  Sea  is  a  level  of  brown  mud 
precisely  like  the  floor  of  a  wide  estuary  after  the  tide  has 
left  it.  The  mud  where  very  dry  is  cracked,  while  where 
very  wet  it  is  a  bog.  It  is  exclusively  mud,  for  there  is 
not  even  a  stone  to  be  seen.  The  only  evidence  of  life 
on  the  fringe  of  the  sea  is  represented  by  some  sickly 
and  anaemic  bushes  the  colour  of  cigar  ash,  which  suggest 
gorse  bushes  which  have  been  bleached  and  dried  as  are 
specimens  prepared  for  museums.  Mud  and  pallid  bush, 
indeed,  compose  the  scenery  of  the  shore  of  the  Dead 
Sea.  It  is  a  landscape  that  is  not  unpleasant  except 
in  its  severity  and  its  meagre  composition.  There  is 
an  air  of  exclusiveness  about  it,  for  every  storm  of  rain 
will  wash  away,  time  and  again,  all  trace  of  footmarks, 
horse-hoofs,  and  carriage  wheels,  leaving  the  surface  as 
smooth  as  in  the  days  of  the  primeval  world.  Thus 
it  is  that  the  impression  is  forced  upon  the  mind  that 
the  shore  is  untrodden  by  man  and  that  the  visitor 
of  to-day  is  the  first  visitor  since  time  began.  This 
aspect  of  loneliness,  this  effacing  of  all  memory  of 
living  things,  this  apparent  desire  to  be  cut  off  from 
the  world,  and  to  obliterate  all  signs  of  approach,  consti¬ 
tute  the  only  sombre  features  of  the  Dead  Sea  coast. 

As  for  the  sea  itself  it  is  a  beautiful  mountain  lake 


150  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

stretching  away  to  the  horizon  for  many  a  glittering 
mile,  a  lake  whose  waters  are  a  glorious  emerald  green, 
suggesting  cool,  unfathomable  depths.  The  wind  ripples 
it,  so  that  tiny  waves,  clear  as  crystal,  break  upon  its 
beach  of  bright  pebbles.  It  is  a  merry  and  kindly  sea, 
for  none  can  drown  in  its  waters.  There  is  nothing 
horrible,  desolate,  or  mysterious  about  it.  Its  shore 
is  infinitely  more  charming  than  the  harsh,  stony 
shore  of  the  Sea  of  Galilee,  as  seen  at  Tiberias.  The 
awful  accounts  of  the  lake  and  of  its  evil  moods  have 
been  long  dispelled.  It  was  said  that  any  bird  essaying 
to  cross  it  fell  dead  upon  its  surface,  that  it  smoked 
with  noisome  vapours,  and  that  a  sulphurous  smell  hung 
about  its  banks.  The  only  thing  horrid  about  the  lake 
is  its  name.  It  has  been  called  the  Dead  Sea,  and  on 
this  account  it  has  been  considered  right  to  endow  it 
with  all  the  gloom  appropriate  to  the  scenery  of  death. 
It  is  only  a  little  more  salt  than  the  Great  Salt  Lake 
in  Utah,  but  no  descriptions  of  that  water  leave  the 
impression  that  it  is  a  sea  of  utter  misery  and  deso¬ 
lation.  As  a  matter  of  detail  the  ocean  contains  some 
3*5  per  cent,  of  salts ;  the  Dead  Sea  can  boast  of  26 
per  cent.,  and  is  therefore  eight  times  salter  than  the 
sea ;  while  the  Great  Salt  Lake  was  found  in  1850  to 
yield  22  per  cent,  of  saline  matters. 

As  is  well  known,  the  Dead  Sea  has  no  outlet.  It 
loses  its  water  by  evaporation,  while  its  level  varies 
from  time  to  time  to  the  extent  of  twenty-one  inches — 
a  rise  and  fall  due  to  the  heat  of  the  season,  on  the  one 
hand,  and  the  amount  of  water  poured  in  by  the  Jordan 
on  the  other.  Standing  on  the  shore  of  this  imprisoned 


THE  JORDAN  AND  THE  DEAD  SEA  151 


lake  it  will  be  seen  that  it  lies  in  a  trough  of  stone. 
Looking  southwards  it  sparkles  away  until  it  meets  the 
sky  at  the  horizon,  but  on  either  side  there  are  steep 
and  prodigious  hills.  At  the  time  of  our  visit  the  sun, 
falling  upon  the  Mountains  of  Moab  which  form  the 
eastern  wall  of  the  lake,  had  coloured  the  rock  a  deep 
brick-red,  so  that  the  precipice  was  aglow  as  if  lit  by  a 
furnace  fire.  The  whole  hill  was  incandescent,  so  that 
it  would  not  have  seemed  wonderful  if  the  water  had 
hissed  and  steamed  as  it  touched  the  foot  of  the  cliff. 
The  western  wall,  formed  by  the  Mountains  of  Judea, 
was  shrouded  in  purple  shadow,  as  if  the  heat  were 
fading  out  of  the  stone.  It  thus  comes  to  pass  that 
the  Dead  Sea  may  appear  to  lie  in  the  hollow  of  an 
enormous  crucible  of  red-hot  rock  where  its  waters  are 
being  evaporated  by  some  unseen  fire. 

The  dull  red  colour  which  is  met  with  among  the 
hills  of  this  unparalleled  valley  serves  to  make  vivid 
an  episode  which  is  described  in  the  Book  of  the  Kings. 
There  was  an  occasion  when  three  kings  of  the  country 
were  banded  together  for  the  purpose  of  making  a  raid 
upon  the  people  of  Moab.  The  Moabites  prepared  to 
meet  the  attack  with  some  eagerness.  They  were 
confident  of  victory,  although  it  was  fated  that  before 
the  sun  went  down  their  entire  force  should  be  cut 
to  pieces.  The  narrative  runs  as  follows  :  The  Moabites 
‘  rose  up  early  in  the  morning,  and  the  sun  shone  upon 
the  water,  and  the  Moabites  saw  the  water  on  the  other 
side  as  red  as  blood  :  and  they  said.  This  is  blood  :  the 
kings  are  surely  slain,  now  therefore,  Moab,  to  the  spoil.' 
The  picture  is  a  graphic  one  to  any  who  have  witnessed 


152 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


the  fierce  glamour  of  red  in  the  land.  The  camp  of  the 
three  kings,  we  may  imagine,  lay  in  the  shadows  of  the 
plain,  rich  and  unsuspecting.  The  hills  are  aglow,  the 
water  is  crimson.  Suddenly  down  from  the  heights,  by 
a  hundred  paths,  pours  the  wild  army  of  the  hillmen 
yelling  out  their  battle-cry,  'On!  Moab,  to  the  spoil!' 
It  seemed  an  easy  onslaught ;  but  the  light  of  blood 
on  the  water  dazzled  their  eyes,  and  it  was  this  mirage 
that  lured  them  to  their  deaths. 

According  to  a  custom  which  has  been  binding  upon 
tourists,  time  out  of  mind,  I  bathed  in  the  sea.  The 
experience  was  curious.  The  water  was  warm  and  very 
clear,  but  it  felt  oily  or  soapy  and  frothed  much  when 
agitated.  The  lake  deepens  quickly  so  that  it  is  un¬ 
necessary  to  swim  out  far.  Floating  is  the  natujal 
attitude  of  all  bodies  of  reasonable  weight  that  drop  into 
the  lake.  Some  ingenious  person  has  discovered  that  a 
fresh  egg  will  float  in  this  accommodating  sea  with  one- 
third  of  its  volume  above  the  water.  I  found  it  possible 
both  to  dive  and  to  swim  under  water.  There  was  no 
difficulty  also  in  making  oneself  sink.  The  real  trouble 
was  with  swimming  on  the  chest,  for  in  that  attitude 
both  feet  came  out  of  the  water  at  each  stroke,  so  that 
progress  was  wellnigh  impossible.  Swimming  on  the  side 
was  easier,  for  then  one  foot  was  always  in  the  water  and 
therefore  efficient.  I  am  under  the  impression  that  if 
an  unconscious  person  were  dropped  into  the  Dead  Sea 
the  head  would  sink  while  the  rest  of  the  body  would 
remain  floating  on  the  surface,  but  I  am  aware  that  there 
are  difficulties  in  the  way  of  verifying  this  impression. 
The  taste  of  the  water  was  merely  salt  and  by  no  means 


THE  DEAD  SEA 


THE  JORDAN  AND  THE  DEAD  SEA  153 


so  nauseous  as  are  certain  medicinal  waters  greedily 
consumed  by  the  public.  The  strong  saline  solution 
certainly  made  one's  eyes  smart  severely,  while  for 
some  time  after  I  had  left  the  lake  there  was  a  sensa¬ 
tion  as  if  a  mustard  plaster  had  been  applied  to  the 
shaven  part  of  one's  face.  On  the  whole,  bathing  in 
the  Dead  Sea  will  not  make  the  reasonable  dissatisfied 
with  the  water  of  the  English  Channel  on  a  summer's 
day.  On  stepping  out  of  the  water  I  caught  a  glimpse, 
for  the  first  time,  of  Mount  Hermon  covered  with  snow, 
while  the  Mount  of  Olives  stood  up  so  clearly  as  to 
delude  one  with  the  belief  that  it  was  near  at  hand. 

On  that  part  of  the  beach  where  tourists  most  do 
congregate  there  is  a  crude  shanty  where  what  is 
reputed  to  be  refreshment  can  be  obtained.  Here  were 
gathered  three  men  and  a  boat.  Near  the  water  are 
two  wooden  posts  which  were  said  to  be  the  remains 
of  a  bathing  hut.  They  represented  the  failure  of  some 
hesitating  ambition  to  found  a  spa,  and  possibly  later 
a  casino,  on  these  exclusive  shores. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  experiences  at  Jericho  was 
the  watching  of  the  dawn  break  over  the  mountains 
of  Moab.  The  vault  of  heaven  was  full  of  stars.  The 
great  line  of  hills  stood  up  as  a  mass  of  black  against 
the  faint  grey  light  of  the  east.  The  whole  fabric  of 
rock,  with  its  level  summit — level  for'  miles — looked 
like  a  colossal  bier  covered  with  a  black  pall.  It  was 
reared  to  a  terrific  height  against  the  quickening  sky. 
As  the  light  grew  its  colour  changed  from  grey  to 
yeUow,  from  yellow  to  rose  pink,  until  it  blazed  out 
into  all  the  glories  of  the  dawn.  The  slopes  of  the 


154 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


range  took  form,  '  the  precious  things  of  the  lasting 
hills  '  began  to  be  revealed,  the  pall  melted  away,  the 
plain  rose  from  the  abyss,  the  sea  appeared  as  a  sheet 
of  dull  lead,  the  stars  faded — and  it  was  day.  It 
would  have  been  in  the  presence  of  some  such  spectacle 
as  this  that  Amos  must  have  written  of  Him  ‘  that 
maketh  the  seven  stars  and  Orion,  and  turneth  the 
shadow  of  death  into  the  morning.' 


XVIII 

ROUND  ABOUT  HAIFA 

It  is  customary  to  proceed  from  Jerusalem  to  Haifa 
by  road,  passing  on  the  way  through  the  land  of  Samaria 
and  by  the  town  of  Shechem  ;  but  at  the  time  that  we 
contemplated  this  journey  the  road  was  declared  to 
be  impassable  by  reason  of  the  rains.  It  was  necessary, 
therefore,  to  return  to  Jaffa  and  to  proceed  thence  to 
Haifa  by  boat.  The  voyage  occupies  some  five  hours, 
in  which  time  the  steamer  passes  from  Dan  to  Zebulon, 
by  way  of  the  country  of  Manasseh.  In  later  times 
the  ship  would  be  described  as  following  the  coast  of 
Samaria  from  one  frontier  to  the  other.  This  same 
coast  is  the  fringe  of  the  Plain  of  Sharon  and  the  sea 
border  of  the  land  of  the  Philistines.  It  is  a  low  coast, 
monotonous  and  featureless,  as  well  as  almost  bare 
of  vegetation.  A  cliff  the  colour  of  firebrick,  broken 
here  and  there  by  a  slope  of  tawny  sand,  a  background 
of  lilac-tinted  hills,  and  a  foreground  of  indigo-blue  sea, 
complete  the  landscape. 

About  half-way  between  the  two  ports  there  is  to  be 

seen  by  the  water's  edge  a  grey  spectre  of  a  town.  It 

is  a  spectre  visible  only  to  those  who  watch  for  it,  for 

155 


156 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


to  some  the  place  might  seem  to  be  little  more  than 
a  low  ridge  of  white  and  grey  rocks.  It  is  found  on  a 
closer  view  to  be  made  up  of  miscellaneous  ruins  of 
some  pretence,  humbled  by  the  company  of  coarse  huts 
and  a  few  modern  dwellings  of  pitiable  meanness.  This 
place,  that  is  little  more  than  a  grey  shadow  on  the 
beach,  is  the  imperial  city  of  Caesarea,  the  once  proud 
seaport,  the  city  built  by  Herod  the  Great — Caesarea 
the  superb,  that  was  at  one  period  the  most  important 
city  in  the  whole  of  Palestine.  It  is  now  a  mere  wraith, 
a  formless  drift  of  stones  and  dust  tenanted  by  slum 
dwellers,  and,  as  Dean  Stanley  says,  the  most  desolate 
site  in  the  Holy  Land. 

The  harbour,  once  full  of  brilliant  galleys  and  masts 
fluttering  with  flags,  is  nearly  silted  up  ;  the  mole,  at 
one  time  crowded  by  porters  and  seamen  and  piled  up 
with  bales  of  goods,  is  barely  traceable  ;  while  the  vast 
amphitheatre,  which  could  accommodate  twenty  thousand 
spectators,  is  indicated  only  by  faint  lines.  Those  who 
have  pored  over  these  ruins,  as  a  scribe  over  fragments 
of  faded  script,  teU  of  high  towers  and  imperious 
gates,  of  a  great  cathedral,  of  huge  bastions,  and 
deep  moats,  for  Caesarea  was  a  fortress  that  once 
withstood  a  seven-years  siege.  It  is  hard  to  appreciate 
that  this  poverty-begrimed  settlement,  where  a  book 
would  be  a  curiosity,  was  once  a  seat  of  learning  in 
whose  halls  Origen  taught.  It  is  harder  still  to  con¬ 
ceive  that  somewhere  in  this  desolation  of  dirt  stood 
that  imperial  court  of  justice  where  Paul  ‘  answered 
for  himself '  before  Festus  and  Agrippa,  and  where  he 
made  the  famous  speech  in  the  defence  of  his  life. 


ROUND  ABOUT  HAIFA 


157 


Here,  according  to  the  legend — in  this  very  spot 
which  could  now  produce  probably  no  vessel  more  artistic 
than  a  kerosine  oil  tin — was  found  the  Holy  Grail,  that 
cup  of  green  crystal  with  six  sides,  out  of  which  Christ 
drank  at  the  Last  Supper.  The  wondrous  story  of  the 
Grail  varies  in  the  telling,  for  it  closes  not  with  the  dread 
adventures  of  either  Sir  Percivale  or  Sir  Galahad.  Vary 
as  it  may  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  that  this  ill-smelling 
fisher  town  stands  for  that  '  blessed  land  of  Aromat ' 
from  which 


*  After  the  day  of  darkness,  when  the  dead 
Went  wandering  o’er  Moriah  ’ 


the  good  Joseph  of  Arimathea  brought  the  cup  to 
Glastonbury  where  the  thorn  blossoms  at  Christmas 
time. 

After  all,  I  think  the  most  lamentable  part  of  the 
Caesarea  of  to-day  is  the  little  harbour.  It  comes  w^ell 
into  view  from  the  steamer's  deck,  the  poor,  desolate, 
forgotten  harbour  wherein  for  ever  ^  shall  go  no  galley 
with  oars,  neither  shall  gaUant  ships  pass  thereby.' 

Nearer  to  Haifa  is  another  ruined  town — the  town  of 
Athlit.  It  forms  a  picturesque  and  romantic  pile  of  ruins, 
interspersed  with  the  miserable  dwellings  of  a  colony 
of  Arabs.  Raised  aloft  on  a  projecting  spur  of  rock 
between  two  bays  it  seems  to  spring  direct  from  the 
Mediterranean,  an  imposing  fortress  with  high  walls, 
pierced  by  many  loopholes  and  commanded  by  a  mas¬ 
sive  tower.  Even  from  a  passing  ship  it  can  be  seen 
that  the  stronghold  still  contains  the  renmants  of 
buildings  of  some  magnificence.  This  sea  castle  was 


158  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


built  by  the  Knights  Templars  in  1218  and  was  finally 
deserted  by  them  in  1291,  so  that  although  over  six 
hundred  years  have  elapsed  since  the  garrison  mustered 
in  the  courtyard  for  the  last  roll-call,  although  the 
mighty  walls  have  been  battered  by  wind  and  sea  and 
shaken  by  earthquakes,  and  although  the  illicit  stone 
dealer  has  made  of  the  place  a  quarry,  yet  the  ever- 
impregnable  fortress  is  even  now  formidable  to  look 
upon.  Those  who  describe  the  ruins  speak  of  them 
as  ‘  second  to  none  throughout  Western  Palestine  in 
massiveness  and  sublimity,’  ^  and  certainly  no  ruins  in 
the  Holy  Land  can  exceed  them  in  picturesqueness. 

It  is  said  that  Athlit  was  the  very  last  stronghold 
held  by  the  Crusaders,  and  that  it  was  here  that  the 
Holy  War,  after  it  had  been  maintained  for  nearly  two 
hundred  years,  came  to  an  end.  Ever  since  Peter  the 
Hermit  had  carried  his  red  message  like  a  firebrand 
through  Europe  men  had  hurried  from  town  and  village, 
from  palace  and  hut,  to  fight  under  the  Cross,  to  open 
the  way  to  Calvary,  to  save  from  desecration  the  land 
that  had  been  trodden  by  the  feet  of  Christ.  It  was 
a  war  made  lamentable  by  a  holocaust  of  human  lives, 
made  glorious  by  the  most  self-sacrificing  devotion,  made 
horrible  by  massacre  and  brutality,  and  pitiable  by 
foolishness  and  mad  fanaticism. 

The  ninth  and  last  Crusade  was  nearing  its  end.  The 
gallant  French  King,  who  was  at  the  head  of  sixty 
thousand  men,  had  died  on  the  way.  Edward  of 
England,  finding  further  fighting  with  a  shadow  hope¬ 
less,  had  sailed  for  home.  Acre  had  been  taken  from 

^  Macmillan’s  Palestine  and  Syria.  (London.  1908. J 


ROUND  ABOUT  HAIFA 


159 


the  Christians  ;  Tyre  and  Jaffa  had  fallen  ;  so  that  the 
only  place  left  in  the  Holy  Land  for  the  foot  of  the 
soldier  of  Christ  was  the  castle  of  Athlit.  The  fortress 
was  besieged,  and  by  such  a  force  that  any  long 
resistance  was  hopeless.  Thus  it  was  that  in  the  great 
Banqueting  HaU  (the  ruins  of  which  are  still  to  be  seen) 
the  Templars  met  to  celebrate  mass  for  the  last  time. 
Then,  when  the  sun  was  set,  they  filed  in  silence  out  of  the 
water-gate  and  down  the  steps  to  the  boats.  The  ships 
were  already  waiting  in  the  little  harbour,  so  that  when 
the  Moslems  entered  the  castle  the  next  morning  it  was 
empty  :  the  last  band  of  Christian  soldiers  had  passed 
away  out  of  sight,  and  the  great  Crusade  was  ended. 

The  ridge  of  Mount  Carmel  ends  by  the  brink  of  the 
sea  in  a  green  and  comfortable  headland.  On  the  north 
side  of  this  promontory  is  the  smooth-shored  Bay  of 
Acre,  a  bay  so  even  of  curve  and  with  so  level  a  beach 
that  the  sea  appears  to  be  encompassed  by  a  sickle  of 
polished  sand.  On  the  far  corner  of  this  gulf  and  under 
the  shelter  of  Mount  Carmel  lies  the  town  of  Haifa. 
There  is  no  harbour  in  the  place,  but  the  high  land 
protects  the  anchorage  from  winds  which  come  out  of 
the  south  and  the  east.  By  the  time  that  the  steamer 
dropped  her  anchor  at  the  foot  of  Mount  Carmel  a 
strong  north-west  breeze  was  blowing.  The  captain 
had  mentioned  the  fact  that  every  winter  he  expected 
to  encounter  about  three  gales  along  the  Syrian  coast. 
This  was  one  of  the  three.  Later  on  we  had  the 
misfortune  to  experience  the  second  of  the  series. 

Although  the  promontory  affords  some  shelter  from 
the  west  there  was  a  moderate  sea  running.  The 


i6o  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

arrangements  for  landing  at  Haifa  fall  very  short  of  per¬ 
fection,  while  the  boatmen  lack  the  efficiency  and  verve 
which  mark  their  brethren  at  Jaffa.  The  benevolent 
protection  of  Mount  Carmel  has  not  fostered  hardihood, 
it  would  seem,  so  that  when  the  wind  runs  strong  from  the 
north  those  who  '  foUow  the  sea '  are  apt  to  do  so  by 
leaning  over  a  sheltered  wall  and  watching  the  waves.  In 
spite  of  the  fact  that  we  reached  the  ‘  Mount  of  God  '  at 
5.30  P.M.  we  did  not  land  until  nine  at  night.  The  same 
long  galleys  are  employed  as  at  Jaffa,  but  those  who 
labour  at  the  oars  are  spiritless  and  dejected  and  may 
possibly  be  the  descendants  of  the  mariners  who,  when 
St.  Paul's  ship  was  in  trouble,  despondently  '  cast  four 
anchors  out  of  the  stern,  and  wished  for  the  day.' 

The  night  was  the  very  blackest  I  can  call  to  mind. 
The  first  boat  took  away  into  the  gloom  a  large  native 
family  with  much  eccentric  luggage  and  five  children. 
What  with  the  darkness,  the  staggering  of  the  ship,  the 
howling  of  the  wind,  the  lashing  of  the  sea,  and  the 
yelling  of  neurotic  boatmen,  this  disembarkation  was 
a  sufficiently  close  reproduction  of  a  shipwreck  at  the 
moment  of  the  order  ‘  Women  and  children  first.' 

The  women  were  handed  over  the  side  in  the  form 
of  shapeless  and  perverse  bundles,  full  of  protest.  They 
dropped  out  of  sight  into  the  murk.  The  children,  being 
unwilling  to  be  lowered  into  an  apparently  bottom¬ 
less  pit  full  of  horrid  sounds,  clung  to  the  ship,  inch  by 
inch,  screaming  and  shrieking  the  while,  as  if  Jonah's 
whale  awaited  them  below  with  open  mouth.  In  due 
course  we  reached  a  boat,  or  at  least  a  boat  reached  us 
by  rising  out  of  the  unseen.  The  moment  it  became 


ROUND  ABOUT  HAIFA 


i6i 


visible  we  were  pushed  into  it  with  scant  notice.  Then 
came  an  intolerably  long  row  towards  some  lights,  such 
as  would  be  produced  by  four  candles  placed  wide 
apart,  the  same  representing  the  city  of  Haifa.  So 
profoundly  dark  was  it  that  we  might  have  been 
rowing  on  the  Styx,  while  the  man  smelling  of  mould 
who  asked  us  for  baksheesh  might  have  been  Charon 
himself. 

After  a  while  the  rowing  ceased,  the  oars  were 
unshipped  without  apparent  reason,  and  I  then  found, 
by  the  sense  of  touch,  that  we  were  alongside  a  rough 
wall.  Whether  it  was  three  feet  high  or  thirty  it  was 
impossible  to  tell  owing  to  the  blackness  of  the  night. 
My  wife  and  the  dragoman  disappeared  vertically  into 
the  air,  having  been  drawn  heavenwards  by  some 
invisible  agency.  I  then  felt  myself  gripped  about 
the  shoulders  and  arms  and  lifted  out  of  the  boat,  to 
be  deposited  on  my  knees  on  some  sharp  stones.  I 
believe  this  translation  was  the  work  of  man,  but 
as  I  saw  no  living  creature,  as  the  silence  was 
unbroken,  and  as  no  one  asked  for  baksheesh,  this 
impression  cannot  be  confirmed. 

I  rose  to  my  feet  and  proceeded  to  walk  in  the  only 
direction  that  had  any  attraction — viz.  away  from  the 
boat.  I  stumbled  over  a  series  of  malignant  obstacles, 
and  finally,  having  tripped  many  times,  fell  heavily 
forwards.  I  alighted  upon  a  large  and  soft  sub¬ 
stance,  which  proved  on  examination  to  be  the  body 
of  a  fellow  tourist.  Before  I  could  ask  if  it  was  well 
with  him  he  exclaimed :  '  I  have  found  out  where  we 
are  :  we  are  on  a  railroad/  It  would  have  been  less 


M 


i62 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


unexpected  if  he  had  announced  that  we  were  in  the 
cave  of  Adullam  or  in  a  street  in  Appii  Forum.  He 
asked  me  to  feel  the  rail  upon  which  he  was  lying. 
I  did  so,  but  found  it  in  no  way  different  from  those 
to  be  seen  at  Clapham  Junction. 

Continuing  our  progress  in  the  same  direction  we 
came  into  more  or  less  violent  contact  with  every  article 
employed  in  the  equipment  of  a  railway.  It  was  as 
instructive  as  a  rough  kind  of  kindergarten  for  the 
blind.  We  tripped  over  '  points,'  fell  upon  shunting 
levers,  came  up  against  trucks  as  against  invisible 
walls,  and  rested  for  a  while  on  a  heap  of  clinkers. 
Proceeding  more  boldly  we  simultaneously  fell  down  a 
bank  and  rolled  on  to  what  proved  to  be  a  firm  stretch 
of  wet  sand.  Upon  this  unexpected  shore  waves  were 
breaking,  and  as  we  wished  no  further  communion  with 
the  sea  we  turned  towards  what  we  believed  to  be  the 
Holy  Land.  After  a  few  steps  I  once  more  collided 
with  a  large  soft  substance  which  proved  this  time  to 
be  a  live  horse.  I  proceeded  to  feel  my  way  along  the 
animal  to  the  tail.  Here  I  discovered  a  cab  attached, 
and  near  by  my  wife  and  the  dragoman,  who  had 
arrived  here  along  a  recognised  path  and  had  assumed 
that,  I  was  following. 

An  examination  of  the  spot  on  the  following  day 
revealed  a  rough  railway  pier,  on  the  deep  water  side 
of  which  we  had  landed.  Instead  of  following  the  pier 
longitudinally,  as  is  customary  when  walking  on  piers, 
we  had  crossed  it  from  side  to  side. 

Having  got  into  the  cab  we  set  out  to  drive  through 
a  mysterious  black  town,  the  extreme  vileness  of  the 


ROUND  ABOUT  HAIFA  163 

road  giving  us  the  assurance  that  we  were  once  more 
on  Turkish  soil.  The  town  was  such  a  one  as 
Gustave  Dor6  loved  to  depict.  It  appeared  to  be 
deserted,  as  if  stricken  by  the  plague.  A  little  light 
came  here  and  there  from  under  a  door  or  through  the 
cracks  of  a  shutter.  We  rattled  along  a  narrow  lane, 
across  such  a  square  as  cloaked  bravos  would  haunt, 
and  under  an  alarming  arch  which  might  have  led 
to  a  dungeon.  The  houses  seemed  fantastic  in  shape 
and  as  full  of  horrible  surmise  as  the  city  of  a  night¬ 
mare.  I  thought  it  was  the  most  dramatic-looking  place 
I  had  ever  seen.  There  were  appearances  of  loopholed 
walls,  of  barred  windows  with  people  watching  behind, 
of  sinister  entries,  of  blank  houses  in  which  dread 
crimes  had  been  committed,  and  of  frightful  gutters 
with  shadows  in  them  like  the  shapes  of  men.  Daylight 
displayed  next  morning  a  modern  town  of  the  most 
commonplace  aspect  and  of  the  dullest  respectability, 
in  which  any  hint  of  romance  was  dispelled  by  that 
severe  crudeness  of  detail  which  marks  the  unaspiring 
Mediterranean  town.  It  was  inconceivable  that  the 
City  of  Dreadful  Night  could  ever  have  been  evolved 
from  this  city  of  insipid  day. 

We  found  at  the  hotel  at  Haifa  a  party  of  three 
derelict  men  who  were  consumed  by  excusable  melan¬ 
choly.  They  had  come  from  Constantinople  to  Beyrout, 
intending  to  proceed  to  Damascus  by  train,  but, 
finding  the  railway  to  that  town  blocked  with  snow, 
they  proposed  to  go  at  once  to  the  goal  of  their 
pilgrimage — Jerusalem.  With  this  object  they  took 
ship  from  Beyrout  to  Jaffa,  but  owing  to  the  violence 


i64  the  land  that  IS  DESOLATE 


of  the  sea  they  could  not  land  at  this  town  and  so  were 
carried  on  to  Port  Said.  Having  exhausted  the  limited 
joys  of  Port  Said  they  again  essayed  to  go  to  Jaffa, 
but  were  taken  past  this  jade  of  a  place  for  the  second 
time — the  sea  being  still  implacable — and  were  deposited 
once  more  at  Beyrout,  a  place  for  which  they  had  already 
acquired  a  marked  distaste.  They  started  once  again 
from  Beyrout  to  Jaffa,  but,  encountering  by  the  way  the 
same  storm  that  had  troubled  us,  were  assured  that 
landing  at  Jaffa  would  be  impossible,  so  they  were 
put  ashore,  with  much  muttering,  at  Haifa.  They 
spoke  boldly  of  going  to  Jaffa  by  road — a  feat  of  no 
mean  daring  in  the  winter — and  sought,  in  the  while, 
relief  from  their  woe  by  constantly  repeating  certain 
pleasantries  about  the  land  that  floweth  with  milk 
and  honey.  They  also  gave  all  within  earshot  to 
understand  that  this  was  their  last  visit  to  Palestine. 

The  German  quarter  at  Haifa  is  the  most  pleasant 
part  of  the  town,  being  admirably  laid  out,  and  full 
of  well-built  houses  with  many  a  charming  garden. 
Since  the  establishment  of  the  German  Colony,  Haifa 
has  made  rapid  and  substantial  advance,  being  now 
a  flourishing  seaport  with  15,000  inhabitants,  together 
with  commerce  of  some  magnitude. 

To  those  who  sojourn  at  Haifa  the  Holy  Mountain  is 
ever  present,  so  that  it  is  possible  to  appreciate  at  leisure 
‘  the  excellency  of  Carmel.'  The  mountain  takes  the  form 
of  a  ridge  which  runs  inland  for  some  fifteen  miles,  form¬ 
ing  a  great  dividing  wall  between  the  Plain  of  Sharon 
on  the  one  side  and  the  Plains  of  Acre  and  Esdraelon  or 
Jezreel  on  the  other.  The  '  Carmel  by  the  Sea  '  forms  a 


ROUND  ABOUT  HAIFA 


165 


headland  560  feet  in  height,  but  inland  the  mountain 
grows  in  stature  as  it  advances,  terminating  opposite  to 
the  low  hills  of  Samaria  in  a  bold  cliff  which  is  1800  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  Mediterranean.  The  slopes  of 
Carmel  are  green  with  trees  and  bushes,  among  which 
are  many  oaks  and  almond  trees.  It  is  therefore  in 
agreeable  contrast  with  the  hills  about  Jerusalem  and 
the  Jordan. 

On  the  summit  of  the  sea  headland  is  the  famous 
Carmelite  monastery.  The  monks  of  the  Order  appear  to 
have  been  established  here  since  about  a.d.  1200,  their 
tenancy  having  been  interrupted  on  occasion,  during  the 
subsequent  seven  centuries,  by  the  violence  of  unbelievers. 
The  present  monastery  dates,  in  its  main  parts,  from 
1828.  The  visitor  to  this  retreat  is  offered  a  choice  of 
delights  :  he  can  either  see,  for  the  sum  of  six  piastres, 
the  cave  in  which  Elijah  is  reputed  to  have  dwelt,  or  he 
can  purchase  for  a  larger  outlay  a  bottle  of  liqueur 
manufactured  by  the  monks  and  called  '  Eau  de  Melisse.' 
If  these  curiously  combined  attractions  avail  nothing 
there  is  at  least  the  view  which  commands  the  coast 
from  Tyre  to  Caesarea  and  the  hinterland  from  Mount 
Hermon  to  the  heights  beyond  the  Jordan.  This  ex¬ 
tensive  panorama  takes  in  a  very  considerable  part 
of  Palestine,  affording  thereby  a  conception  of  the 
comparative  smallness  of  the  country. 

Carmel  stands  out  conspicuously  in  the  history  of 
the  Holy  Land,  being  the  scene  of  many  events  recorded 
in  the  Old  Testament.  It  was  in  Carmel  that  that 
astute  woman  Abigail  met  David,  and  it  was  under  the 
shadow  of  the  hill  that  he  married  her.  She  was,  it  may 


i66  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

be  remembered,  ‘  a  woman  of  good  understanding,  and 
of  a  beautiful  countenance/  She  was  also  a  woman 
of  fluent  and  voluminous  speech,  with  a  great  deal  to 
say  for  herself.  Her  first  husband  was  a  source  of 
trouble  to  her,  being  not  only  churlish  in  his  manner, 
but  also  ‘  evil  in  his  doings.'  Abigail,  although  appar¬ 
ently  a  torrential  talker,  may  be  commended  for  her 
terse  and  restrained  description  of  her  spouse,  since 
in  her  harangue  to  David  she  summed  up  the  unfor¬ 
tunate  man  in  the  following  brief  words :  *  Nabal  is 

his  name,  and  folly  is  with  him/ 


XIX 

ACRE 

The  place  of  greatest  interest  near  Haifa  is  Acre,  which 
stands  at  the  far  point  of  the  bay,  at  a  distance,  accord¬ 
ing  to  Rabbi  Benjamin  of  Tudela,  of  three  parasangs. 
The  road  from  Haifa  to  Acre  is  the  best  in  Palestine, 
for  it  is  a  road  not  made  by  man.  The  traveller  drives 
along  the  beach,  round  the  curve  of  the  bay,  from  the 
one  town  to  the  other.  The  shore  is  of  level  sand, 
wet  with  the  sea,  and  so  firm  that  the  carriage  wheels 
make  scarcely  a  mark  on  it.  The  journey  is  one  of 
great  delight.  When  we  passed  along  that  way  the 
sea,  freshened  by  the  winter  wind,  appeared  to  be 
effervescent.  Beyond  the  beach  were  the  dunes  of  wind- 
rumpled  sand,  a  golden  country  of  many  dips  and  dells 
and  of  many  mimic  thickets  of  reedy  grass.  Far  away 
beyond  the  dunes  was  a  wide  semicircle  of  hills  which 
shut  out  the  world.  Stalking  along  the  beach  was  a 
caravan  of  camels  with  sundry  horsemen  and  sack-laden 
donkeys.  About  this  picturesque  procession  fluttered  a 
number  of  gulls  who  had  been  disturbed  in  their  wading. 

At  some  little  distance  from  Haifa  we  drove  across 
a  stream  on  the  point  of  entering  the  sea.  It  was  a 

167 


i68 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


singularly  modest  stream  that  seemed  only  anxious  to 
efface  itself  and  to  steal  into  the  ocean  unobserved.  It 
crept  across  the  sand  like  a  person  treading  noiselessly. 
Many  a  traveller  driving  to  Acre  may  fail  to  observe  that 
he  had  crossed  a  river  by  the  way.  This  very  unobtru¬ 
sive  stream  is  no  other  than  the  famous  River  Kishon — 

‘  that  ancient  river,  the  river  Kishon/  that  witnessed  the 
defeat  of  Sisera's  host  and  was  reddened  with  the  blood 
of  the  slaughtered  prophets  of  Baal. 

Nearer  to  Acre  another  stream  is  crossed — the  River 
Belus.  Some  legend  exists  that  with  the  sand  by  the 
banks  of  this  stream  the  Phoenicians  first  learned  to 
make  glass.  This  shadowy  report  caused  Sir  John 
Maundeville — the  knight  who  came  from  St.  Albans  in 
England — to  break  out  into  circumstantial  lying.  He 
says  that  near  to  the  river  '  is  the  foss  of  Memnon, 
which  is  all  round ;  and  it  is  one  hundred  cubits  broad, 
and  all  full  of  gravel,  shining  bright,  of  which  men 
make  fair  and  clear  glasses.  Men  come  from  far,  by 
water  with  ships,  and  by  lands  with  carts,  to  fetch  of 
that  gravel ;  and  though  ever  so  much  be  taken  away 
thereof  one  day,  on  the  morrow  it  is  as  full  again  as 
ever  it  was.  And  that  is  a  great  wonder.  And  there  is 
always  great  wind  in  that  foss,  that  continually  stirs  the 
gravel  and  makes  it  troubled ;  and  if  any  man  put  therein 
any  kind  of  metal,  it  turns  to  glass,  and  the  glass  made 
of  that  gravel,  if  it  be  thrown  back  into  the  gravel,  turns 
to  gravel  as  it  was  at  first  ;  and,  therefore,  some  men 
say  that  it  is  whirlpool  of  the  gravelly  sea.* 

Acre,  as  seen  from  the  bay,  stands  boldly  out  into 
the  sea,  like  a  far-reaching  rock  whose  extreme  point 


ACRE,  AS  APPROACHED  FROM  HAIFA 


ACRE 


169 

is  lost  in  water  fathoms  deep.  In  the  place  of  rock 
is  a  long  dark  wall  rising  out  of  the  sea,  a  wall  heavily 
fortified,  with  here  and  there  a  postern  and  at  one  spot 
a  cavern-like  sea  gate.  Behind  are  piled-up  houses, 
brown,  blue,  and  white,  with  red  roofs  or  yellow  cupolas 
and  sun-shutters  of  bright  green,  for  Acre  stands  full  in 
the  glare  of  the  day.  There  are  besides  alert  minarets, 
a  stolid  dome,  a  tower,  and  certain  high  buildings  which 
rise  above  the  rest  as  if  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  sea. 
In  its  setting  of  jade-green  water  and  maise-yellow  sand. 
Acre  from  afar  is  an  enchanting  town  of  many  colours. 
The  entrance  to  the  town  is  through  the  solitary  land 
gate  by  which  alone  it  is  possible  to  go  in  or  to  come  out. 
Acre  from  its  very  earliest  days  has  been  a  place  of 
war.  It  has  had  neither  leisure  nor  inclination  for 
the  arts  of  peace.  It  has  been  a  fortress,  never  a  home. 
It  has  been  a  towm  of  men.  The  sounds  that  would  be 
familiar  to  Acre,  above  the  roar  of  the  sea,  have  been  the 
clatter  of  arrows,  the  hail  of  catapult  stones,  the  pound¬ 
ing  of  battering  rams,  the  roar  of  cannon,  the  rattle  of 
guns.  It  seems  to  have  been  first  besieged  on  a  worthy 
scale  in  a.d.  638,  and  to  have  been  last  bombarded  in 
1840.  During  the  intervening  twelve  hundred  years  it 
was  many  times  taken  and  retaken,  was  burned  on 
occasion,  starved  on  occasion,  and  on  occasion  laid 
silent  by  the  plague.  It  was  the  chief  landing-place  of 
the  Crusaders,  and  was  for  long  the  principal  Christian 
stronghold  in  the  Holy  Land. 

It  is  stiU  a  wholly  masculine  town.  There  are 
now  women  and  children  in  the  place,  but  they  have 
done  little  as  yet  to  soften  the  harsh  features  of  this 


170  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

war-battered  fortress.  Acre  is  a  place  of  immense  walls, 
too  massive  to  ever  fall  into  decay.  There  is  a  great 
moat  on  the  land  side  of  the  town  that  the  rubbish  of 
centuries  will  never  fill  up.  There  are  fragments  of 
towers,  vaulted  chambers,  narrow  passages  roofed  with 
stone,  gigantic  storehouses,  magazines  fashioned  of 
heavy  masonry,  and  streets  that  are  mere  alley-ways 
between  barracks  and  military  works.  Around  all 
are  the  great  ramparts,  and  although  these  are  of 
comparatively  modern  date  there  are  yet  in  evidence 
walls  of  all  ages,  among  which  it  is  not  difficult  to  find 
traces  of  bastions  and  redoubts  built  and  held  by  the 
Crusaders.  More  than  that,  some  remains  are  to  be 
seen  of  the  Crusaders'  Church.  This  city  of  alarms  is 
still  a  military  station.  The  soldiers  who  compose  the 
garrison  are  as  ruinous  as  the  fortifications.  They 
are  shabby  and  slovenly,  ill-clad  and  ill-shod,  so  as 
to  appear  like  an  army  of  tramps  holding  a  beggared 
citadel.  The  guide-books  say  that  there  are  few 
antiquities  in  Acre.  This  may  be  expected,  inasmuch 
as  twelve  hundred  years  of  bombardment  and  assault 
are  not  calculated  to  assist  in  the  preservation  of 
ancient  monuments. 

From  Acre  can  be  seen  the  romantic  promontory 
known  as  the  Ladder  of  Tyre,  beyond  which  headland 
lie  Tyre  and  Sidon,  both  of  which  are  sunk  now  into  a 
state  of  hebetude  and  obscurity.  We  were  not  able  to 
visit  Tyre,  but  the  photographs  of  the  place  show  it  to 
be  the  humblest  of  little  towns.  Yet  there  was  a  time 
when  Tyre  was  ‘  the  crowning  city,  whose  merchants 
are  princes,  whose  traffickers  are  the  honourable  of 


WALLS  OF  ACRE 


ACRE 


171 

the  earth/  Tyre  was  the  mistress  of  the  seas,  and 
Ezekiel  speaks  in  fine  words  of  her  ships  whose 
timbers  were  of  pine  from  Senir,  whose  masts  were  of 
cedar  wood,  whose  oars  were  of  oak  from  Bashan,  and 
whose  sails  were  made  of  '  fine  linen  with  broidered 
work  from  Egypt  ’  in  colours  of  blue  and  purple.  ^V'hat 
the  prophet  foretold  of  Tyre  has  come  to  pass  :  her 
walls  have  been  destroyed,  her  towers  have  been  broken 
down ;  she  has  become  '  like  the  top  of  a  rock  :  .  .  . 
a  place  to  spread  nets  upon/ 


L 


XX 

THE  ROAD  TO  NAZARETH 

The  distance  from  Haifa  to  Nazareth  is  said  to  be 

twenty-four  miles,  the  road  to  be  fairly  good,  and  the 

time  of  the  journey  to  be  four  to  five  hours.  We  found 

the  miles  phenomenally  long,  the  journey  to  occupy  six 

hours,  and  the  road  to  be  fairly  bad.  For  some  eight 

miles  the  way  lies  close  to  the  foot  of  the  Carmel  range, 

skirting  the  level  plain  of  Acre.  It  is  a  pleasant  country 

enough,  for  the  plain  is  extensively  cultivated  and  the 

slopes  of  the  hill  are  green  with  trees  and  bush.  We 

passed  through  olive  groves,  by  thickets  of  mimosa, 

through  plantations  of  mulberry  trees,  and  by  hedges 

of  prickly  pear.  We  also  came  upon  abject  villages, 

incredible  in  the  display  of  dirt,  and  upon  frowsy 

women  drawing  water  at  a  well.  The  Eastern  woman 

at  the  well,  as  depicted  by  artists  in  regular  succession 

for  many  centuries  past,  is  a  picturesque  creature,  but 

when  the  woman  of  Samaria  is  dejected  and  unkempt, 

when  she  is  decked  in  a  cheap  Manchester  skirt  which 

is  both  wet  and  dirty,  and  when  her  pitcher  is  a 

kerosene  oil  tin,  she  is  not  pleasant  to  look  upon. 

There  was,  furthermore,  by  the  wayside  a  shepherd 

172 


THE  ROAD  TO  NAZARETH 


173 


clad  in  a  Joseph’s  coat  of  many  colours.  It  was  in 
reality  a  cloak,  patched  with  rags  of  every  hue  under 
the  sun — yellow,  red,  blue,  brown,  and  white.  I  am 
under  the  impression  that  the  man  was  something  of 
a  poseur  and  that  he  combined  the  tending  of  sheep  with 
a  remunerative  mumming  for  the  benefit  of  tourists.  He 
was  a  little  overdressed  for  the  part  and  was  evidently 
willing  to  be  photographed  for  a  consideration.  It  is 
probable  that  many  scores  of  albums,  devoted  to  *  snap¬ 
shots  from  the  Holy  Land,’  contain  a  portrait  of  this 
yokel  in  fancy  dress,  above  the  title  of  "  Joseph.’ 

In  due  course  the  Kishon  is  crossed  and  we  draw 
jiear  to  the  circle  of  wooded  hills  which  encloses  the 
flat  towards  the  east.  About  this  spot  a  certain  green 
kopje  is  pointed  out  which  is  believed  to  be  the  site  of 
Karosheth  of  the  Gentiles,  a  stronghold  held  by  Sisera, 
the  captain  of  Jabin’s  army.  Here,  in  this  quiet  stretch 
of  country,  the  great  battle  between  Sisera  and  Barak 
was  fought.  It  was  about  Harosheth  and  the  Kishon 
River  that  Sisera  marshalled  his  people,  a  savage  host  of 
filibusters  who  for  twenty  years  had  ‘  mightily  oppressed 
the  children  of  Israel.’  In  front  of  this  array  of 
buccaneers  and  cattle-raiders  were  drawn  up,  in  a 
solid  line,  Sisera’s  '  nine  hundred  chariots  of  iron.’ 
It  must  have  been  a  stirring  picture,  since  the  ad¬ 
vancing  army,  led  by  Barak  the  son  of  Abinoam  out 
of  Kadesh-Naphtali,  was  composed  of  no  less  than  ten 
thousand  warriors. 

There  was  a  strange  feature  about  Barak’s  army. 
In  the  centre  of  the  host  of  ten  thousand  determined 
men,  who  were  making  the  last  stand  for  hearth  and 


174 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


home,  marched  a  solitary  woman.  Unarmed  and  un¬ 
attended  she  was  yet  mistress  of  this  throng  of  spears. 
Her  eyes  were  ablaze,  her  voice  rang  far,  and  the  words 
that  she  uttered  moved  the  hearts  of  the  vast  company 
*  as  the  trees  of  the  wood  are  moved  with  the  wind.’ 
This  was  Deborah.  She  walked  with  head  erect  as  if 
she  were  BeUona,  the  Goddess  of  War.  As  she  walked 
she  sang.  Her  spirit  thrilled  the  veins  of  the  fighting 
men  who  advanced  to  the  music  of  her  step.  She  gave 
strength  to  the  arm  that  hurled  the  javelin  and  nerve  to 
the  hand  that  drew  the  bow.  Although  she  uttered  no 
word  of  command,  yet  she  led  the  field,  for  Barak  had 
said  to  her :  ‘  If  thou  wilt  go  with  me,  then  I  will  go : 
but  if  thou  wilt  not  go  with  me,  then  I  will  not  go.’ 

It  was  the  woman  against  the  chariots  of  iron,  and 
the  woman  was  the  victor.  Sisera’s  great  force  was  cut 
to  pieces.  Of  the  entire  army  of  reckless  brigands  who 
had  stood  jeering  behind  the  strong  line  of  iron  chariots 
only  one  solitary  man  escaped.  That  man  was  Sisera 
himself.  Jumping  from  a  chariot  already  cumbered  by 
its  dead  charioteer  he  fled  away  on  foot  across  the  plain. 
He  had  escaped  one  woman  :  he  was  destined  that  day 
to  fall  into  the  hands  of  another  woman — into  the  strong, 
relentless  hands  of  Jael  the  wife  of  Heber  the  Kenite. 
The  episode  is  graphically  dealt  with  in  the  Book  of 
the  Judges.  It  is  told  how  Jael  called  to  the  flying 
general,  how  she  invited  him  into  her  tent,  gave  him 
milk  to  drink,  and  covered  him  over  with  a  cloak  as  he 
lay  on  the  ground  weary  and  breathless.  He  begged  her 
to  stand  at  the  door  of  the  tent  and  watch.  She  did ; 
but  she  watched  only  the  tired  man  under  the  cloak. 


THE  ROAD  TO  NAZARETH 


175 


When  he  was  fast  asleep  she  went  softly  to  him  and 
drove  a  spike  through  his  skull  with  such  intensity  of 
hate  that  his  head  was  staked  to  the  ground. 

The  road  now  mounts  up  the  slope  of  the  wooded 
heights  which  have  faced  us  for  so  many  miles.  We 
pass  for  a  little  while  through  an  enchanted  country, 
through  a  forest  of  oaks  and  by  green  luxuriant  glades. 
From  the  summit  of  the  hill  is  a  view  of  the  Carmel 
range  and  of  the  whole  length  of  the  plain  we  have 
traversed  since  we  set  out  upon  the  journey.  Haifa 
is  a  mere  splash  of  pure  white  on  the  edge  of  a  sea 
of  pure  blue.  Before  the  hill  dips  again  there  comes 
into  sight  another  great  plain,  the  Plain  of  Jezreel, 
a  level,  monotonous,  treeless  country,  brown  where  the 
plough  has  lately  passed,  green  where  the  corn  is  rising 
from  the  earth.  It  stretches  away  below  us  for  many 
miles,  the  field  upon  which  were  fought  the  fiercest 
battles  of  the  people  of  Israel. 

This  is  the  land,  too,  of  Jezebel,  since,  some  way  off, 
on  a  spur  of  the  mountains  of  Gilboa,  stands  the  town 
of  Jezreel.  The  town  is  in  a  line  with  a  hill  called  Little 
Hermon,  which  is  pointed  out  to  the  traveller  many 
times  before  the  journey  ends.  Below  the  town  lay 
Naboth's  vineyard.  It  was  in  this  vineyard  that  the 
tragic  meeting  took  place  between  Ahab  and  Elijah. 
Ahab  was  strolling  among  the  vines,  smiling  to  himself, 
for  his  heart  was  full  of  delight.  The  coveted  vine¬ 
yard  at  last  was  his.  Naboth  was  dead — had  been 
murdered  in  fact — so  the  king  had  gone  down  to  the 
vineyard  to  possess  it.  He  was  pleasantly  engaged  in 
planning  in  his  mind  how  he  would  lay  it  out  as 


176  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


a  garden  of  herbs  in  pursuance  of  a  scheme  he  had  long 
cherished.  At  a  certain  turn  in  the  path  the  king's 
exulting  steps  were  suddenly  arrested.  He  staggered 
as  one  smitten  with  a  palsy,  for  standing  before  him  in 
the  way  was  the  stern,  implacable  figure  of  Elijah  the 
prophet.  '  And  Ahab  said  to  Elijah,  Hast  thou  found 
me,  O  mine  enemy?  And  he  answered,  I  have  found 
thee.'  It  is  recorded  in  the  Book  of  the  Kings  that 
Ahab,  before  he  died,  built  many  cities  and  that  he 
made  for  himself  an  ivory  house,  but  there  is  no  chronicle 
to  show  that  he  ever  laid  out  the  garden  of  herbs  that 
had  so  long  filled  his  dreams. 

Near  to  the  hill  of  Little  Hermon  is  a  village  called 
Sulem,  which  has  been  identified  as  the  Shunem  of 
ancient  days.  It  was  here  that  dwelt  the  kindly  woman 
who  built  a  little  chamber  on  the  wall  of  her  house  for 
the  use  of  Elisha,  who  was  continually  passing  through 
the  village  on  his  way  to  or  from  Mount  Carmel.  It  may 
be  remembered  that  she  furnished  it  very  simply  with 
merely  a  bed,  a  table,  a  stool,  and  a  candlestick.  Not 
long  after  the  chamber  was  finished  she  had  a  son. 
He  died  when  he  was  still  a  little  boy  and  the  woman 
laid  the  dead  body  upon  the  bed  in  the  chamber  on  the 
wall,  while  she  went  to  Mount  Carmel  to  fetch  Elisha. 
It  is  possible  to  see  from  the  hilltop  nearly  the  whole 
of  the  ground  she  traversed  on  her  way  from  Shunem  to 
the  mountain. 

Literature  contains,  both  in  history  and  in  fiction, 
many  accounts  of  the  dying  of  children.  Certain  of 
these  descriptions  are  finely  written  and  are  full  of 
pathos,  while  many  are  so  over-elaborated  as  to  be 


'VI?- L 


v'J  j:"  • 


'■‘i  - 

•  ';'■*•  - 


.y-i 


NAZARETH 


THE  ROAD  TO  NAZARETH 


177 


mawkish  and  artificial.  It  may  be  doubted  if  a  more 
exquisite  or  more  vivid  account  of  the  death  of  a  small 
boy^from  sunstroke  after  playing  in  the  harvest  field, 
could  be  furnished  than  that  set  out  in  the  Book  of 
the  Chronicles  of  the  Kings.  From  the  high  road  to 
Nazareth  the  traveller  looks  down  upon  the  very  corn¬ 
fields  where  the  child  played,  and  it  is  easy  to  imagine 
even  in  the  time  of  the  rains  the  intense  heat  of  the 
flat  on  a  summer's  day.  The  account  is  given  in  these 
words :  ‘  And  when  the  child  was  grown,  it  fell  on  a 
day,  that  he  went  out  to  his  father  to  the  reapers. 
And  he  said  unto  his  father.  My  head,  my  head.  And 
he  said  to  a  lad.  Carry  him  to  his  mother.  And  when 
he  had  taken  him,  and  brought  him  to  his  mother,  he 
sat  on  her  knees  till  noon,  and  then  died.  And  she 
went  up,  and  laid  him  on  the  bed  of  the  man  of  God, 
and  shut  the  door  upon  him,  and  went  out.' 

The  road  curving  down  the  far  side  of  the  height 
crosses  the  plain  and  begins  to  mount  up  the  hills  on 
the  other  side.  Among  these  hills  Nazareth  is  hidden. 
It  is  a  sorry  country,  for  the  land  is  bare,  harsh,  and  tree¬ 
less.  The  slopes  are  grey  with  stones,  while  the  misery 
of  the  place  is  deepened  by  the  starving  scrub  which 
struggles  to  live  among  the  rocks.  Here  is  assuredly 
to  be  seen  the  poverty  of  the  earth.  When  the  high 
ground  is  reached  there  is  once  more  a  wide  view  of  the 
plain,  of  the  humble  hills  of  Samaria,  of  Little  Hermon, 
and  of  Mount  Tabor,  a  lonely,  dome-topped  mountain, 
wizened  and  bleak.  The  treeless  plain  is  cultivated  in 
rectangular  patches,  which  are  green  where  the  corn 
is  springing  and  brown  where  it  is  as  yet  unsown.  So 

N 


178  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


level  is  it  that  it  looks  like  a  faded  green  carpet,  patched 
and  darned  with  odd  squares  of  russet. 

In  this  drear  spot,  at  the  foot  of  a  melancholy  hill, 
stands  Endor,  where,  on  a  certain  night,  the  witch  saw 
rising  out  of  the  earth  the  figure  of  an  old  man  covered 
with  a  mantle.  By  the  side  of  the  crone  a  trembling 
man  grovelled  on  the  ground,  with  his  face  to  the  earth, 
for  he  dared  not  look  upon  the  spectre.  This  man  was 
Saul,  the  King  of  Israel.  It  was  not  until  the  phantom 
had  vanished  that  the  king  rose  and  sat  upon  the  edge 
of  the  bed,  weak  and  sore  distressed,  and  still  stunned 
by  the  awful  words  he  had  heard  spoken.  Dreary 
as  the  house  of  the  witch  must  have  been  in  the  light 
of  the  sun,  it  would  be  a  place  of  horror  in  the  depths  of 
the  night. 

Not  far  from  Endor  the  dragoman  points  out  in 
this  panorama  of  strange  towns  and  stranger  happen¬ 
ings  a  cluster  of  huts  surrounded  by  a  cactus  hedge, 
and  states  that  it  represents  the  city  of  Nain,  where 
the  widow's  son  was  brought  back  to  life  as  he  was 
being  carried  out  of  the  town  to  be  buried.  This  citizen 
of  Nain  was  one  of  the  few  human  beings  who  have 
been  in  a  position  to  witness  and  to  criticise  his  own 
funeral. 


XXI 


NAZARETH 

Nazareth  clings  to  the  slope  of  a  hollow  among  the 
highlands  of  Galilee.  It  is  surrounded  by  a  semicircle 
of  hills,  said  to  be  fourteen  in  number,  and  is  a  place 
hidden  away  from  the  sight  of  men.  It  is  open  only 
to  the  road  that  leads  up  from  the  plain  along  a 
shallow  valley.  In  this  valley  are  many  fig  trees. 
Those  that  are  old  and  bare  of  leaves  would  seem  to  be 
fashioned  out  of  grey  coral,  while  at  a  distance  a  thicket 
of  such  ancients  has  the  appearance  of  smoke  trailing 
along  the  ground.  In  the  valley  also  are  pomegranates, 
oranges,  a  few  palms,  many  olive  trees,  straggling  vine¬ 
yards,  and  hedges  of  prickly  pear.  Nazareth  lies  in  a 
cul-de-sac  at  the  end  of  this  dale.  Its  houses  are  ranged 
far  up  this  slope  so  as  to  convey  the  impression  of  an 
amphitheatre  among  the  mountains.  The  houses  being 
built  of  white  limestone  the  town  is  white.  These 
white  walls,  and  the  verdant  valley  which  flows  like 
a  stream  of  green  towards  the  plain,  are  the  only  charm 
that  Nazareth  possesses  beyond  its  memories  of  the 
past. 

This  home  of  Joseph  and  Mary  is  a  hill  town  that 

179 


i8o  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

calls  to  mind  some  remote  village  in  the  barrenest 
part  of  Derbyshire.  The  valley  of  fig  trees  is  pleasant 
enough,  but  the  whole  of  the  high  land  that  surrounds 
the  place  is  lamentable  in  its  leanness  and  destitution. 
The  hills  about  Nazareth  are  naked,  being  littered 
with  rocks  and  stones  which  have  been  washed  by 
the  rain  and  bleached  by  the  sun  to  the  colour  of  dry 
bones.  The  modern  name  of  the  town  is  en-Nasirah, 
which  is  by  interpretation  ‘  The  Victorious.’  It  is  an 
unexpected  title  which  may  be  assumed  to  indicate  the 
victory  of  man  in  planting  an  outpost  of  the  living  in 
this  territory  of  the  dead. 

It  was -in  this  land  of  stones  that  Christ  spent  the 
first  thirty  years  of  His  life,  the  most  impressionable 
period  of  a  man’s  days,  while  it  was  amidst  these  grey 
surroundings  that  the  great  religion  of  the  world  came 
into  being.  The  country  is  harsh  and  sterile,  unkindly 
and  unsympathetic,  a  country  where  life  must  have  been 
hard  and  its  pleasures  ungenerous.  The  problem  of 
living  was  here  reduced  to  its  most  rudimentary  factors, 
to  the  crudest  conception  of  man  in  his  struggle  with 
the  grudging  earth.  The  human  life  that  Christ  looked 
out  upon  was  life  at  its  simplest  and  sternest,  while 
at  Nazareth  two  thousand  years  ago  the  now  complex 
fabric  of  society  must  have  presented  but  an  elemental 
form.  The  town,  lost  among  the  hills,  was  cut  off  from 
the  rest  of  the  world,  was  far  away  from  the  tide  of 
human  affairs,  being  as  secluded  as  a  hermit’s  cave. 

There  was  one  joy,  nevertheless,  ever  present  and 
ever  precious  in  the  town  of  Nazareth.  It  was  this : 
from  any  gap  in  the  steep  street,  or  from  any  crag  on 


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the  desolate  heights  there  stretched  a  view  down  the 
valley  and  across  the  mighty  plain  to  the  distant  hills. 
It  was  a  vision  of  green  prairie  and  of  purple  steeps,  a 
prospect  full  of  hope,  of  emprise,  and  of  imaginings.  It 
was  the  joyous  way  that  led  out  into  the  world.  It  was 
by  this  enchanted  road  that  Christianity  started  on  a 
journey  which  was  destined  to  lead  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth.  It  was  this  green  valley,  open  to  the  south,  that 
guided  the  flight  of  the  messenger  of  peace.  It  was 
down  this  dale  that  the  ray  of  light,  pouring  from  one 
small  window  in  the  town,  spread  fan-like  over  the 
surface  of  the  world.  Such  is  the  wonder  of  Nazareth 
to  this  day,  the  wonder  that  belongs  to  the  birthplace  of 
a  great  faith. 

The  most  conspicuous  feature  of  modern  Nazareth 
is  afforded  by  the  immense  and  imposing  buildings  of 
stone  which  rise  from  among  the  mean  dwellings  of  the 
town.  These  are  Christian  edifices  of  various  kinds, 
convents  and  monasteries,  orphanages,  churches  and 
schools.  As  is  the  case  with  other  sacred  towns  in 
Palestine,  Nazareth  is  the  scene  of  a  very  acute  religious 
competition.  If  one  Christian  sect  erects  a  palatial 
convent  it  is  incumbent  upon  some  other  Christian  sect 
to  found  an  opposition  building  of  still  greater  pretence. 
These  arrogant  buildings  provide  an  unedifying  spectacle 
of  that  bitter  civil  warfare  which  engages  the  world  of 
Christendom.  There  is  within  the  circuit  of  this  little 
hill  town  a  sufficient  army  of  religious  folk,  equipped  with 
sufficient  ‘  means  of  grace  ’  to  convert  a  continent,  and 
yet  the  visitor  is  warned  in  the  guide-book  that  '  the 
inhabitants  are  noted  for  their  turbulent  disposition.’ 


i82 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


Nazareth  is  not  a  Christian  town  because  the  followers 
of  Christ  are  apparently  more  concerned  in  discomfiting 
their  co-religionists  than  in  bettering  the  state  of  the 
people  about  their  doors.  Nazareth,  outside  the  walls 
of  religious  magnificence,  is  a  poor  place,  a  town  of 
narrow  and  dirty  streets,  of  unwholesome  houses,  of 
miserable  slums,  and  of  by-ways  that  stink  with  a 
stink  not  soon  to  be  forgotten.  The  villages  around 
Nazareth  are  among  the  most  abject  and  the  most 
filthy  I  have  any  recollection  of,  being  composed  of 
little  more  than  a  few  pitiable  huts  clustering  around 
a  heap  of  manure  as  around  a  thing  of  joy. 

If  one  hundredth  part  of  the  money  spent  upon 
the  religious  buildings  of  Nazareth  had  been  devoted 
to  teaching  the  people  to  be  clean,  to  making  the  town 
healthy,  and  to  improving  the  condition  of  the  needy, 
Nazareth  would  be  a  happier  place  than  it  is  at  this 
moment.  The  contrast  between  the  superb  stone 
convents,  and  the  dens  of  squalor  with  which  they  are 
surrounded,  is  a  remarkable  anomaly.  When  Christ¬ 
ianity  in  Nazareth  has  exhausted  the  possibilities  of 
bombast  and  display,  and  condescends  to  the  dwellings 
of  the  poor,  it  will  be  well  with  the  place,  for  then ' 
possibly  the  teaching  of  Him  Who  was  meek  and 
lowly  may  reach  to  the  life  of  the  people.  An  excep¬ 
tion  must  be  made  of  the  British  Hospital  at  Nazareth 
which,  without  ostentation,  carries  out  a  valuable  work 
of  pure  benevolence. 

The  Church  of, the  Annunciation  is  built  over  the 
site  of  the  House  of  the  Virgin.  This  house,  it  would 
appear,  was  a  cave — so  that  Joseph  and  Mary  must 


NAZARETH 


183 

have  been  cave-dwellers.  The  place  of  the  Annunciation 
is  also  underground,  and,  as  accuracy  is  important,  a 
column  marks  the  spot  where  stood  the  angel  Gabriel, 
and  another  column  the  place  where  the  Virgin  received 
the  angel's  message  and  was  troubled  in  her  mind  as 
to  what  the  salutation  meant.  •  This  cellar-like  spot  is 
a  sad  shock  to  those  who  have  delighted  in  the  scenery 
of  the  old  pictures  that  portray  the  Annunciation. 
It  is  evident  that  Fra  Giovanni  Angelico  did  not  receive 
the  inspiration  for  his  frescoes  from  this  rock-cavern 
under  a  church. 

The  visitor,  now  hardened  and  disillusioned  in  the 
matter  of  holy  sites,  can  see  without  shrinking  the 
kitchen  of  the  Virgin  and  even  the  chimney  of  the  same. 
The  apartment,  however,  is  not  even  a  cave  but  is, 
in  point  of  fact,  an  ancient  water  cistern,  the  opening 
into  which  plays  the  part  of  the  chimney.  There  are 
other  harassing  discrepancies  about  the  House  of  the 
Virgin  of  greater  moment.  The  monks  at  Nazareth  show 
the  dwelling  with  a  complacency  which  is  unruffled  by 
the  fact  that  the  real  dwelling  of  the  Virgin  is  at  this 
moment  in  Italy — where  it  takes  the  form,  not  of  a  cave, 
but  of  a  stone  house,  twenty  feet  in  length  and  twelve  and 
a  half  in  width,  the  same  being  described  as  very  simple. 
It  may  be  stated  at  once  that  the  Christian  Church  in 
Italy  has  obtained  possession  of  the  house  by  no  other 
method  of  right  than  good,  strong,  sonorous  lying.  Their 
story  is  as  follows.  About  the  year  a.d.  1291  the  house 
of  the  Virgin  at  Nazareth  had  fallen  into  decay,  as  may 
have  been  expected  of  a  village  carpenter's  cottage  at 
the  end  of  a  thousand  years.  To  save  it  from  utter 


i84  the  land  that  IS  DESOLATE 


loss  it  was  removed  in  the  year  named.  The  removal 
was  effected  by  angels  and  the  means  of  transport  was 
the  air.  The  flying  house  was  first  of  all  dropped,  as 
it  were,  on  the  coast  of  Dalmatia,  between  Fiume  and 
Tersato.  It  seems  to  have  remained  there  unclaimed 
for  three  years,  at  the  expiration  of  which  period  it  was 
again  removed  by  angels,  the  air  being  once  more  the 
medium  of  transport  and  the  carriage  being  accomplished 
during  the  darkness  of  the  night.  On  this  occasion  the 
much-travelled  building  alighted  in  a  field  near  Recanati, 
on  the  property  of  a  widow  of  the  name  of  Laureta.  This 
lady  seems  to  have  appreciated  the  value  of  the  stone 
building  which  had  reached  her  after  the  manner  of 
an  airship,  so  that  in  due  course  a  church  was  erected 
over  the  winged  house,  and  around  the  church  sprang 
the  town  of  Loreto.  The  town  is  still  there,  being 
possessed  of  a  railway  station  and  hotels,  and  of  cabmen 
with  whom,  Baedeker  says,  it  is  necessary  to  bargain 
beforehand.  It  is  also  ‘  infested  by  beggars  and  impor¬ 
tunate  guides.'  The  church  is  still  extant  and  the 
Casa  Santa  remains  in  excellent  preservation.  The 
matter,  therefore,  is  beyond  discussion,  while  the  monks 
at  Nazareth  have  to  do  as  well  as  they  can  with  a 
disused  water  tank  with  a  hole  in  it. 

Although  the  visitor  to  Nazareth  will  view  the  carpen¬ 
ters'  shops  in  the  town  with  interest,  he  will  probably 
decline  to  visit  the  site  of  the  workshop  of  Joseph,  or 
the  synagogue  in  which  Christ  is  said  to  have  preached, 
and  will  refuse  to  look  upon  the  block  of  hard  chalk, 
eleven  and  a  half  feet  long  by  nine  and  a  half  broad, 
which  formed  the  table  on  which  Christ  dined  with  His 


Mary’s  well  at  nazareth 


NAZARETH 


185 


disciples  both  before  and  after  the  Resurrection. 
The  honest  pilgrim  is  indeed  exposed  to  severe  tests 
in  Nazareth.  Of  greater  interest  than  these  ridiculous 
objects  is  a  cutler’s  shop,  where  men  are  making 
gardeners’  knives  as  they  have  made  them  for  centuries. 
These  archaic  instruments  are  like  primitive  razors. 
With  them  men  still  prune  vines,  cut  grass,  and  gather 
fruit.  There  is  reason  to  believe  that  this  knife  has 
changed  but  little,  either  in  its  outlines  or  in  the 
manner  of  its  making,  since  the  days  of  Christ. 

Everyone  who  comes  to  Nazareth  will  visit  Mary’s 
Well.  It  is  reached  by  wading  through  the  filth  of  a 
nauseating  suburb.  As  it  is  the  only  spring  in  the  town 
it  can  claim,  with  some  assurance,  to  be  the  stream  at 
which  Mary  must  have  many  a  time  filled  her  pitcher 
with  water  while  she  held  by  the  hand  the  Child  Jesus. 
The  structure  which  surmounts  the  conduit  is  quite 
modern.  The  water  issues  through  stone  gullies  in 
two  streams.  At  Mary’s  Well  the  inhabitants  wash  their 
vegetables  as  well  as  their  feet,  they  water  their  cattle, 
and  at  the  same  time  carry  out  intimate  toilet  operations 
in  the  public  eye.  The  women  come  hither  to  draw 
water,  bringing  with  them  ancient  olive-shaped  jars, 
or  picturesque  pitchers,  as  well  as  modern  bedroom 
jugs  with  florid  patterns,  and  discarded  biscuit  tins 
with  labels  in  English  still  adhering  to  them.  The 
surroundings  of  the  place  are  damp  and  sloppy,  while 
the  women  at  the  well  are  not  out  of  keeping  with 
their  environment.  One  guide-book,  in  an  account  of 
Nazareth,  says  ‘  many  pretty  female  figures  are  to  be 
seen '  in  the  town.  On  the  occasion  of  our  visit  these 


i86 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


females  had  to  a  soul  kept  strictly  to  the  privacy  "of 
their  homes  and  had  avoided  the  well  as  if  its  waters 
were  poisonous  to  beauty.  The  only  girl  at  the  fount 
who  had  any  claim  to  even  local  charm  was  marred  as 
to  her  appearance  by  the  fact  that  her  bare  legs  rose 
out  of  exceptionally  large  police  boots. 

Before  leaving  the  Victorious  City  I  experienced  one 
vivid  revelation  of  Nazareth  as  it  was  when  Joseph 
and  Mary  dwelt  there  with  the  Child.  Some  hours 
before  sunrise  I  looked  out  over  the  town.  It  was 
a  night  of  stars  and  yet  so  dark  was  it  in  the  hollow 
of  the  hill  that  no  building,  large  or  small,  could  be 
deciphered.  There  was  enough  shaping  of  the  shadows 
to  indicate  that  a  silent  town  lay  there  at  the  end  of 
the  dale,  but  of  church,  convent,  or  cottage,  minaret, 
or  spire,  there  was  never  a  manifestation.  Against  the 
faint  light  in  the  sky  the  summit  of  the  surrounding 
hill  was  visible,  clear  cut  as  !jet  on  dull  silver,  but 
without  a  house  to  mar  the  tracing  of  peak  and  dell 
that  had  been  familiar  to  every  Nazar ene  for  twenty 
centuries  and  more.  There  was  the  town,  and  there, 
against  the  starlight,  was  the  ridge  above  the  town. 
Just  as  I  saw  it  all  so  would  it  have  appeared  two 
thousand  years  ago,  in  the  days  when  the  story  began. 
In  a  while  the  silence  was  broken  by  the  crowing  of 
a  cock.  A  little  later  two  donkeys  pattered  by 
along  the  road  that  leads  to  the  south.  Just  such  a 
sound  as  this  must  have  stirred  the  dawn  and  have 
roused  the  ear  of  the  sleeper  when  Joseph  and  Mary 
went  down  to  Jerusalem  with  the  Child. 


XXII 

\ 

FROM  NAZARETH  TO  THE  SEA  OF  GALILEE 

The  journey  by  carriage  from  Nazareth  to  Tiberias 
is  said  to  occupy  '  about  five  hours/  We  left  Nazareth 
at  8  A.M.,  but,  although  our  vehicle  was  light  and  our 
horses  three,  we  did  not  reach  Tiberias  until  nearly 
4  p.M.  This  discrepancy  in  time  may  be  explained  by 
the  circumstance  that  it  rained  for  the  most  part  of 
the  way. 

The  road  climbs  the  height  at  the  back  of  Nazareth 
and  then  wanders  for  some  time  in  and  out  among  a 
waste  of  barren  hills  covered  with  stones.  In  the  presence 
of  a  vicious  rain  egged  on  by  an  icy  wind  the  prospect  en¬ 
gendered  what  Shakespeare  calls  ‘  a  villanous  melancholy.' 
Looking  backwards  there  is  a  fine,  if  hazy,  view  over  the 
whole  of  Nazareth,  while  on  the  way  Mount  Tabor  comes 
again  into  sight.  This  isolated,  dome-shaped  hill  is 
over  1800  feet  high.  The  dragoman  endeavoured  to 
cheer  us  by  the  announcement  that  the  mount  was  on 
the  frontier  of  Issachar  and  Zebulon,  but  it  was  too  chilly 
to  be  stirred  by  information  even  of  that  kind.  There  was 
in  ancient  days  a  walled  town  on  the  summit  of  the  hill. 
It  possessed  a  great  castle,  a  monastery,  and  no  fewer 

187 


i88 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


than  three  churches.  It  rose  out  of  the  plain  as  Mount 
St.  Michael  rises  from  the  sea,  an  imposing  height,  crowned 
with  battlements,  towers,  and  spires.  It  is  now  a  mass 
of  ruins,  but  these  ruins  cover  four  square  miles ;  the 
castle  is  a  heap  of  stones,  while  of  the  three  churches 
there  are  only  to  be  found  inconsiderable  remains. 

In  the  next  valley  to  Nazareth  is  a  village  of  some 
proportions.  It  presents  a  disgusting  medley  of  mud 
houses,  fowls,  goats,  heaps  of  dirt,  men,  and  manure, 
all  huddled  together  in  a  dread  potpourri  of  filth.  As 
the  place  is  of  no  Biblical  interest  there  is  neither  church 
nor  convent  here,  the  spot  being  evidently  regarded  as  out¬ 
side  the  pale  of  mission  work.  For  missionary  enterprise 
in  this  country  it  is  necessary  that  the  ‘  field  '  should 
possess  in  the  first  place  that  most  valuable  advertising 
asset,  a  Bible  name. 

Among  the  hills  a  place  reputed  to  be  the  ancient  Gath- 
Hepher  is  pointed  out.  If  the  assumption  of  identity 
be  true  it  was  the  birthplace  of  Jonah,  and  its  dismal 
position  may  weU  account  for  the  mental  depression  of 
that  irritable  and  neurotic  man. 

In  due  course  the  road  reaches  a  level  plain  scarcely 
to  be  distinguished  from  the  others  traversed  on  the  way 
from  the  coast.  It  is  treeless  but  green,  while  on  either 
side  of  it  are  ranged  commanding  hills.  The  dragoman 
made  a  kindly  effort  to  enliven  us  by  stating  that  the 
hills  facing  us  through  the  drifting  rain  belonged  to 
Kadesh  Naphtali,  but  the  prospect  was  so  dreary  that 
we  received  the  news  without  enthusiasm. 

On  elevated  ground  at  the  commencement  of  the  plain 
is  the  village  of  Kafr  Kenna,  which  is  claimed  by  some  to 


NAZARETH  TO  THE  SEA  OF  GALILEE  189 


be  identical  with  the  Cana  of  the  Bible.  It  forms  an  oasis 
in  the  flat,  being  situated  in  a  thicket  of  olive  trees, 
apricots,  apples,  and  pomegranates.  Just  at  the  entrance 
of  the  village  was  an  almond  tree  in  blossom.  Cana  is 
a  place  of  some  800  inhabitants  who  occupy  a  number  of 
flat-topped,  earth-coloured  houses  which  are  scattered 
about  in  disorder.  There  is  a  watering-place  in  the 
village  where  many  lean  kine  and  weary-looking  donkeys 
were  loitering  aimlessly.  A  gaudy  church,  with  a  red 
roof  and  white  walls,  dominates  the  place,  while  about  it 
are  certain  schools  and  a  mission  station.  These  buildings 
would  appear  to  be  greatly  in  excess  of  the  spiritual 
needs  of  the  settlement.  We  declined  to  alight  from  the 
carriage  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  in  the  church  the  actual 
water-pots  of  stone  in  which  the  water  was  turned 
into  wine  on  the  occasion  of  the  marriage  feast  at  Cana. 
For  simple  audacity  this  exhibition  of  the  water-pots 
is  not  to  be  excelled,  even  in  a  country  which,  in  the 
matter  of  deception,  has  dared  much. 

Not  very  far  from  this  village  the  road  ends,  so  that 
the  rest  of  the  journey  to  Tiberias  is  by  way  of  a  track, 
deep  in  mud,  across  the  coffee-brown  earth  of  the  plain. 
It  was  impossible  for  the  horses  to  proceed  except  at  a 
walk,  while  many  a  time  the  mud  was  so  deep  as  to 
reach  the  axles  of  the  wheels.  There  is  no  question  that 
the  best  vehicle  upon  which  to  travel  along  a  Turkish 
road  in  the  winter  would  be  a  plough  with  a  seat  attached 
to  it.  Nothing  on  wheels  could  be  adapted  to  cut  its 
way  through  the  perniciously  adhesive  mud  of  this 
particular  plain.  With  three  seated  ploughs  and  three 
horses  we  should  have  fared  well  and  have  reached  the 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


190 

lake  in  the  allotted  time.  We  lunched  by  the  side  of  a 
mud-pond  in  a  downpour  of  rain  and  in  the  full  blast 
of  a  wind  which  might  have  just  swept  over  a  glacier. 

As  we  neared  the  scene  of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount 
the  mud  assumed  a  very  malignant  condition.  For  more 
than  a  mile  it  took  upon  itself  the  consistence  of  potter's 
clay.  The  spaces  between  the  spokes  of  the  wheels 
became  rapidly  filled  up  with  this  substance,  so  that 
each  wheel  was  changed  into  a  disc  of  solid  earth  about 
one  foot  in  thickness.  When  this  magnitude  had  been 
attained  all  progress  became  impossible,  since  the 
revolving  mass  of  clay  jammed  against  the  side  of  the 
carriage  and  brought  it  to  a  standstill.  It  was  then 
necessary  for  the  driver  to  alight  and,  by  means  of  his 
feet  and  his  hands,  aided  by  violent  speech,  to  get  rid  of 
the  encumbrance.  Before  many  yards  were  traversed 
the  wheels  had  grown  to  their  previous  size,  so  that  the 
carriage  seemed  to  be  supported  upon  four  enormous 
grinding-stones.  The  horses  stopped,  and  the  kicking  of 
the  driver's  feet  upon  the  spokes  and  the  clawing  of  his 
hands  at  the  same  commenced  once  more. 

We  were  at  the  time  passing  over  some  undulating 
downs  so  covered  with  stones  that  they  might  have 
rained  from  heaven.  At  the  end  of  a  shallow  valley  in 
these  downs  is  a  low  hill  with  two  peaks.  The  hill 
is  said  to  be  of  volcanic  origin  and  is  known  locally  as 
the  Horns  of  Hattin.  Its  sides  are  steep  and  grey,  being 
covered,  like  the  rest  of  the  country,  with  stones.  It 
is  the  only  mound  in  sight.  Its  position  is  commanding 
and  it  is  easy  to  understand  that  it  has  been  selected — 
without  authority  in  fact — as  the  Mount  of  the  Beati- 


DISTANT  VIEW  OF  TIBERIAS  AND  SEA  OF  GALILEE 


NAZARETH  TO  THE  SEA  OF  GALILEE  191 


tudes.  Although  the  Sea  of  Galilee  is  not  yet  visible 
from  the  track  the  Horns  of  Hattin  can  be  seen 
from  the  surface  of  the  lake.  Here  were  uttered  the 
words  ‘  Blessed  are  the  peacemakers  :  for  they  shall 
be  called  the  children  of  God ' ;  and  here  in  July 
1187  was  fought,  by  men  who  called  themselves  the 
children  of  God,  one  of  the  most  desperate  and  bloody 
battles  of  the  great  Crusade.  The  Christian  soldiers, 
although  they  carried  high  above  their  spears  and  bows 
a  fragment  of  the  true  Cross,  were  cut  to  pieces  to  a 
man  at  the  very  foot  of  the  mount  from  which  had  issued 
the  words  ‘  Blessed  are  the  merciful ;  for  they  shall 
obtain  mercy.* 

In  a  while  the  Lake  of  Gennesaret  comes  into  view. 
The  traveller  looks  down  upon  it  from  the  hilltop  which 
commands  Tiberias.  By  the  time  we  had  reached  the 
spot  where  the  descent  begins  the  rain  had  ceased  and 
a  faint  light  from  the  declining  sun  lit  up  this  wild 
mountain  country.  The  surface  of  the  lake,  smooth  as 
a  mirror,  was  in  tint  a  French  grey,  while  the  hills  and 
cliffs  upon  the  distant  shore  were  a  hazy  blue.  It  was 
hard  to  tell  the  more  rounded  hills  from  the  clouds. 
The  place  was  spectral  and  mysterious.  The  earth 
appeared  unsubstantial  and  the  water  as  impalpable  as 
a  sheet  of  mist,  so  that  one  could  imagine  that  the 
whole  scene  might  fade  as  a  mirage  when  the  sun  feU 
full  upon  it. 


XXIII 


THE  SEA  OF  GALILEE 

Before  going  down  to  Tiberias  we  halted  to  view  the 
lake  at  closer  range.  The  Sea  of  Galilee  lies  in  a  valley 
between  steep  hills.  This  valley  is  open  to  the  north 
and  to  the  south.  The  lake  is  pear-shaped,  being  some 
thirteen  miles  in  length  and  about  six  miles  at  its  widest 
part.  It  is  680  feet  below  the  level  of  the  Mediterranean. 
The  Jordan  enters  the  lake  at  its  northernmost  point 
and  leaves  at  its  southern  extremity.  The  Sea  of  Galilee, 
viewed  from  a  height,  is  picturesque  to  a  certain  degree, 
as  must  be  any  large  collection  of  water  among  high  hills. 
It  could  not,  however,  be  said  to  be  beautiful.  The 
country  around  the  lake  is  characterless,  monotonous, 
and  bare.  It  is  a  treeless  country,  grey  with  stone  rather 
than  green  with  grass.  There  is  over  all  a  sense  of  soli¬ 
tude  and  desolation.  Once  on  a  time  the  lake  bustled 
with  activity.  Its  waters  were  covered  with  galleys  and 
sailing  ships,  and  its  beaches  lined  with  fishing  boats. 
Its  quays  were  thronged  with  merchants,  with  officials, 
with  wealthy  idlers,  with  Roman  centurions  and  their 
men.  Along  its  shores  were  many  large  and  prosperous 
towns.  There  was  the  town  of  Capernaum,  conspicuous 

192 


THE  SEA  OF  GALILEE 


193 


by  its  government  buildings  and  its  garrison  of  Roman 
soldiers;  while  not  far  distant  were  the  arrogant  and 
pleasure-loving  cities  of  Bethsaida  and  Chorazin.  The 
lake  would  appear  to  have  been  as  favourite  a  resort  in 
Galilee  as  the  Lake  of  Lucerne  in  Switzerland. 

The  shores  of  the  Sea  of  Gennesaret  are  now  abandoned. 
It  is  possible  to  follow  the  coast  for  miles  without  detect¬ 
ing  a  sign  of  life.  Only  one  town  remains  out  of  them  all 
— the  half-ruinous  and  whoUy  dirty  town  of  Tiberias. 
The  sites  even  of  the  cities  of  Capernaum,  Bethsaida, 
and  Chorazin  are  unknown.  On  the  north  border  of 
the  lake,  where  the  hills  are  low,  a  patch  of  white 
on  a  slope  leading  to  the  sea  marks  the  ruins  of 
Tell  Hum.  In  the  opinion  of  some  this  stone-heap  of 
Tell  Hum  might  possibly  mark  the  site  of  Capernaum, 
where  Christ  frequently  dwelt,  and  which  was  spoken 
of  as  '  his  own  city.’  Of  this  place  He  said,  '  And 
thou,  Capernaum,  which  art  exalted  to  heaven,  shalt  be 
brought  down  to  hell  ’  ;  and  if  hell  be  nothingness  the 
prophecy  has  been  bitterly  realised.  As  for  Bethsaida 
and  Chorazin  the  woe  foretold  of  them  has  fallen  heavily 
upon  their  laughter-echoing  streets,  for  every  trace  of 
them  has  been  swept  from  off  the  face  of  the  earth.i 

In  full  view  from  the  hilltop  is  the  Plain  of  Gennesaret, 
still  fertile  and  even  luxuriant,  but  neglected  and  forsaken 
like  the  rest  of  the  land  that  surrounds  the  sea.  At  the 
edge  of  the  plain  a  few  miserable  hovels  indicate  the 
village  of  Mejdel,  which  is  no  other  than  the  ancient 


^  A  very  admirable  account  of  the  Sea  of  Galilee  and  of  the  country 
which  borders  upon  it  is  given  in  Dr.  Ernest  W.  G;  Masterman’s  Studies 
in  Galilee.  (Chicago.  1909.) 


o 


194 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


Magdala,  where  dwelt  Mary  Magdalene.  It  would  seem 
as  if  all  relics  of  the  Bible  story  had  been  wafted  away, 
and  that  with  them  had  vanished  the  charm  of  the  old, 
pleasant  days  when  the  lake  was  a  place  of  delight. 
Nothing,  indeed,  serves  to  keep  green  the  memory  of 
bygone  times  but  the  flowers  which  still,  on  the  return  of 
spring,  people  the  land.  Although  they  are  the  direct 
descendants  of  those  flowers  of  the  field  that  served  to 
illustrate  the  discourse  of  Christ,  they  now  bloom  in  a 
solitude,  with  none  to  ‘  consider '  them. 

The  lake,  on  nearer  view,  fails  to  exhibit  any  hitherto 
undiscovered  charm.  It  is  still  a  lonely  stretch  of  water, 
as  monotonous  and  unsympathetic  in  its  environment  as 
the  basin  of  a  reservoir.  The  water  certainly  is  clear 
and  of  a  delicate  plumbago  blue,  but  the  beach  is  harsh, 
being  made  up  of  sharp  stones  and  rocks  which  are  a 
sorry  substitute  for  the  smooth  beach  of  clean  pebbles 
that  encircles  the  Dead  Sea.  Walking  along  the  shore 
northwards  from  Tiberias,  at  the  close  of  the  day  when 
the  light  is  most  full  of  magic,  we  expected  much  but  found 
little.  We  came  upon  the  bleached  skeletons  of  horses  and 
donkeys  that  had  apparently  crept  down  to  the  water's 
edge  to  die.  Furthermore  we  encountered,  with  these 
remains,  considerable  and  fetid  heaps  of  town  refuse,  hor¬ 
rible  rags  that  had  once  clung  to  men,  discarded  oil  tins, 
and  broken  crockery.  It  may  seem  a  sanctified  experi¬ 
ence  to  walk  in  meditative  mood  by  the  Sea  of  Galilee  in 
the  still  of  the  evening,  but  when  one  has  to  pick  one's 
way  among  aggressive  filth,  and  to  hold  a  handkerchief 
to  one's  nose  the  while,  even  the  enchanting  story  of  the 
lake  avails  for  little.  There  were  certainly  fishing  boats 


THE  SEA  OF  GALILEE 


195 


on  the  beach,  such  boats  as  Simon  Peter  may  have  used, 
but  there  was  also  a  steam  launch,  built  at  Dartmouth 
in  England,  tearing  by  with  much  blowing  of  its  whistle 
and  much  rattling  of  its  screw.  In  the  place  of  men 
‘  washing  their  nets,'  as  St.  Luke  describes,  there  were 
men  washing  a  tourist  char-a-banc  which  had  been 
drawn  to  the  brink  of  the  lake  to  be  rid  of  its  mud.  One 
could  but  feel,  over  and  over  again,  that  if  there  be 
anything  in  names  this  sea  has  every  claim  to  the  title 
of  the  Dead  Sea. 

Tiberias,  like  many  other  objects  in  the  East,  looks  its 
best  from  a  distance.  It  appears  then  as  a  grey  and  white 
town  within  a  wall  and  on  the  very  edge  of  the  sea. 
The  waU  is  brown,  is  more  or  less  ruinous,  is  crumbling 
feebly  away  in  places,  but  is  made  gallant  and  bold  in 
other  parts  by  round  towers  of  no  mean  girth.  At  the 
north  end  of  the  town  is  a  considerable  castle,  belonging 
to  the  days  of  crossbows  and  catapults.  There  are,  above 
the  housetops,  indications  of  dome,  minaret,  and  palm. 
Indeed  it  is  possible  to  conceive  that  people  viewing 
Tiberias  from  the  hill  might  think  that  they  would  like 
to  live  in  this  city  by  the  lake  for  the  rest  of  their  days. 
They  will  not  hold  to  that  impression  when  once  they  have 
passed  within  its  boundaries. 

Tiberias  was  never  a  place  of  great  repute.  It  was 
a  Roman  city  founded  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  26.  It 
must  have  been  of  some  magnificence  and  beauty,  for  it 
was  here  that  Herod  built  his  golden  house,  and  it  was 
here  also  that  the  palace  stood  which  was  notable  in 
that  it  was  adorned  with  figures  of  animals. 

The  present  town  is  made  up  of  narrow  paved  streets 


196  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

which  are  more  or  less  liberally  covered  with  filth,  for 
Tiberias  is  famous  for  its  dirt.  The  houses  are  uninterest¬ 
ing  where  not  actually  ugly.  The  bazaar  is  mean  and 
squalid,  while  such  little  light  as  may  penetrate  into  its 
stifling  alleys  is  warded  off  by  boards  and  by  curtains 
of  canvas  or  rags.  It  is,  in  short,  a  wretched  and  stinking 
place. 

The  '  Temple  Dictionary  of  the  Bible '  states  that  '  in 
matters  of  cleanliness  and  sanitation  the  town  is  quite 
oriental.'  This  is  a  little  severe  on  the  Orient  generally. 
The  sanitation  of  Tiberias,  being  of  the  primordial  kind, 
is  worthy  of  some  study,  for  it  maintains  in  its  integrity 
the  hygiene  of  neolithic  man.  The  thrifty  housewife 
disposes  of  all  offal,  garbage,  or  general  house  refuse  by 
throwing  the  same  into  the  street.  Practically  all  the 
streets  slope  towards  the  beach,  so  that  when  the  rain 
comes  the  deposit  is  slowly  slithered  into  the  lake.  As  the 
water  for  household  purposes  is  obtained  from  the  lake 
there  is  established  what  is  called  a  vicious  circle,  or 
rather  a  circular  movement  of  germs  from  the  house  to 
the  sea  and  back  again.  If  there  be  no  rain  then 
there  is  the  sun,  which  will  dispose  of  the  refuse  by  the 
uncompromising  process  of  putrefaction. 

I  cannot  say  that  the  humbler  citizens  of  Tiberias 
could  be  exhibited  as  proving  the  value  of  that  system  of 
hygiene  which  is  '  quite  oriental,'  for  some  of  them  are 
the  most  sickly  objects  to  be  met  with  outside  a  hospital 
ward.  The  most  dejected  specimens  are  certain  Jews  who 
crawl  about  the  city  like  peevish  convalescents.  Above 
their  ringlets  they  wear  large  black  hats  or  fur  caps,  while, 
as  to  their  bodies,  they  are  clad  in  dressing-gowns  such  as 


TIBERIAS 


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I 


THE  SEA  OF  GALILEE 


197 


would  be  worn  by  persons  who  had  been  invalids  for  a 
lifetime  and  had  never  attained  to  normal  outdoor 
clothing.  They  are  gowns  that  suggest  a  frowsy,  much- 
hollowed  armchair  by  a  stale  bedside.  These  people 
dressed  as  invalids  look  like  invalids,  being  thin,  limp, 
and  grievously  pale.  Some  of  them  might  have  been 
hidden  from  the  light  of  day  for  months  in  dungeons  or 
in  lazar  houses. 

Such  is  Tiberias,  the  sickly  city,  which  exists  to  prove 
that  mere  stench  is  not  fatal  and  that  the  persistence  of 
human  life  is  not  incompatible  with  sturdy  vermin  and 
the  lack  of  every  observance  of  hygiene. 


/ 


XXIV 


THE  ASCENT  TO  DAMASCUS 

Tiberias  is  not  a  place  to  linger  at ;  even  a  passionate 
sanitary  inspector  would  find  it  pall  in  time  ;  so  we  re¬ 
solved  to  leave  it  with  as  much  speed  as  the  dragoman 
would  sanction.  One  rash  person  at  the  hotel  had  said 
that  if  we  stayed  at  Tiberias  a  little  while  we  should 
find  the  place  grow  upon  us.  I  realised  even  in  our  brief 
experience  that  it  was  growing  upon  us — as  mould  grows 
on  a  damp  wall.  We  took  our  leave  of  the  imperial 
city  at  6.40  in  the  morning,  while  it  was  yet  dark,  and 
made  our  way  to  the  boat  through  an  earnest  and  self- 
assertive  rain.  The  route  to  the  quay  is  by  a  narrow 
paved  street  which  was,  for  the  moment,  converted  into 
a  rivulet,  the  waters  of  which  babbled  over  our  feet  as  we 
walked.  Its  sickly  eddies  carried  seawards  the  refuse 
of  the  night  in  the  form  of  horrible  rouleaux  made  up  of 
fish  entrails,  rags,  eggshells,  vegetable  garbage,  paper, 
and  a  kind  of  fibrous  dirt.  The  same  melange  formed  in 
places  islands  or  little  dams  of  filth,  and  in  other  spots 
left  raised  beaches  of  stratified  corruption. 

We  ultimately  reached  the  steam  launch  from  Dart¬ 
mouth  and  crawled  beneath  the  arched  roof  of  rough 

198 


THE  ASCENT  TO  DAMASCUS 


199 


wood.  A  long  sojourn  on  the  Sea  of  Galilee,  combined 
with  many  local  repairs,  has  given  the  boat  quite  an 
oriental  appearance.  There  were  other  English  travellers 
escaping  from  the  city  at  the  same  time,  but  it  was  too 
dark  at  first  to  make  out  their  characteristics.  It  was 
interesting,  as  the  light  grew,  to  watch  their  features 
gradually  take  form  and  individuality,  for  up  to  a 
certain  period  they  were  merely  human  beings  with  a 
grievance,  the  grievance  being  Tiberias.  It  was  like 
watching  the  gradual  appearance  of  the  image  in  a 
photographic  plate  during  the  process  of  development. 
We  passed  on  the  voyage  the  Baths  of  Tiberias  and 
noticed  that  they  were  ostentatiously  deserted,  for 
Tiberias  has  not  yet  the  making  of  a  popular  spa  and 
health  resort.  The  water  of  the  baths  is  hot,  and, 
according  to  the  guide-book,  is  ‘  much  extolled  as  a 
cure  for  cutaneous  diseases.'  If  this  be  so,  subjects 
for  the  cure  should  not  be  far  to  seek. 

The  southern  end  of  the  lake  takes  the  form  of 
a  low  bank  of  clay  of  the  colour  of  fire-brick.  Through 
an  insignificant  gap  in  this  bank,  fringed  with  reeds, 
the  Jordan  sneaks  out  into  the  plain.  A  more  common¬ 
place  or  less  dramatic  exit  it  would  be  impossible  to 
imagine.  It  compares  meanly  with  the  heroic  leap  of 
the  impetuous  Nile  as  it  bursts  with  a  roar  from  the 
Victoria  Nyanza  on  its  long  journey  to  the  sea.  The 
launch  proved  itself  worthy  of  its  maker  on  the  Dart, 
for  a  fair  breeze  was  blowing.  The  pilot  was  a  half- 
naked  man,  clad  in  a  turban  and  an  English  oilskin  coat, 
who  steered  the  boat  with  his  bare  foot.  He  would  have 
been  quite  a  personage  at  a  West  of  England  regatta. 


200 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


The  landing  is  at  the  south  end  of  the  lake,  at  a  place 
called  Semakh.  We  were  put  ashore  at  a  pier,  and  then 
reached  the  railway  station  by  ascending  a  slope  of  mud 
as  slippery  as  a  bank  of  ice.  The  ascent  would  have  been 
almost  impossible  but  for  a  stream  of  rain-water  which 
happily  poured  down  the  centre  of  the  chute.  By 
walking  carefully  in  the  water — a  proceeding  for  which 
our  experience  at  Tiberias  had  admirably  fitted  us — 
we  all  managed  to  gain  a  plateau  where  the  mud  was 
agreeably  tenacious. 

The  railway  journey  from  Semakh  to  Damascus  is  only 
123  miles,  but  it  occupies  a  day.  There  is  but  a  single 
line  of  rails,  the  officials  hold  a  spirited  conversazione 
at  every  station,  and  the  journey  is  aU  the  way  up-hiU. 
Semakh  is  610  feet  below  the  sea-level,  while  Damascus 
is  2266  feet  above  it,  so  that  a  climb  of  2876  feet  has  to 
be  effected.  This  ascent  is  commenced  almost  at  once, 
for  the  train,  beyond  Semakh,  reaches  promptly  the 
steep  sides  of  the  hills  which  lie  to  the  east  of  the 
Jordan. 

This  part  of  the  journey  is  picturesque  as  is  the  course 
of  any  mountain  railway  among  precipitous  heights. 
The  train  follows  for  many  miles  the  intricate  valley  of 
the  Yarmuk.  This  river  is  a  tributary  of  the  Jordan, 
and  its  khaki-coloured  waters  were  at  the  moment 
swollen  with  the  recent  rains.  The  line  winds  in  and  out 
among  the  maze  of  hills,  rising  ever  higher  and  higher, 
passing  through  wild  gorges  and  through  black  ravines, 
creeping  along  a  ledge  cut  half-way  up  the  side  of  a 
precipice,  plunging  into  a  valley  of  trees,  or  skirting  a 
glade  of  luxuriant  pasture.  Many  caves  in  the  rock  are 


THE  ASCENT  TO  DAMASCUS 


201 


passed,  and  many  a  waterfall.  The  road  turns  upon 
itself  more  than  once,  so  that  it  is  possible,  from  a  greater 
height,  to  look  down  upon  the  rails  that  have  been  already 
traversed.  The  river  changes  in  due  course  from  a 
huge  masterful  torrent  to  a  mere  hesitating  mountain 
stream. 

The  hills  are  lofty,  grey-green,  wild,  and  very  bare. 
There  are  few  signs  of  human  occupation  to  be  seen.  On 
one  pale  slope  may  be  dotted  a  number  of  black  goats, 
like  flies  on  a  sunny  wall.  In  one  picturesque  dell,  close 
to  the  stream  and  at  the  foot  of  a  terrific  cliff,  we  came 
upon  a  Bedouin  camp  made  up  of  black  tents.  These 
piratical-looking  tents  are  fashioned  of  hair  cloth,  woven 
by  the  women,  and  are  identical,  probably  in  every 
particular,  with  those  tents  of  ancient  days — the  comely 
tents  of  Kedar.  Around  the  tents  are  the  flocks  and  herds 
and  the  untidy  and  intimate  paraphernalia  of  a  camp. 
Once  we  happened  on  a  solitary  man  climbing  the  smooth 
side  of  a  hill  among  this  wilderness  of  hiUs.  He  looked  so 
lonely  that  he  might  have  represented  the  last  man  left 
upon  the  earth  at  the  Last  Day.  There  were  no  signs 
of  any  roads,  but  here  and  there  we  passed  a  narrow 
toilsome  path,  made  by  the  tramping  of  human  feet 
and  ever  striving  towards  the  summit. 

We  were  full  of  speculation  as  to  what  strange 
sight  the  summit  would  present.  After  plodding  upwards, 
at  a  snail’s  pace,  for  hours  we  almost  expected — in  the 
manner  of  Jack  of  the  Beanstalk — to  find  ourselves 
in  a  new  country.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  when  the  top  of 
the  height  was  gained  we  did  come  into  a  strange  country 
— into  the  remarkable  land  of  the  Hauran,  the  ancient 


202 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


land  of  Bashan  of  the  tribe  of  Manasseh.  This  Hauran 
is  a  great  raised  plateau  or  tableland  reared  heaven¬ 
wards  between  the  Jordan  and  the  Waters  of  Merom 
in  the  west  and  the  vast  desert  of  Arabia  on  the  east. 
It  lies  south  of  Mount  Hermon  and  of  the  land  of  the 
Geshurites.  Bashan  was  famous  for  its  forests  of  great 
oaks  and  for  its  strong  bulls.  Everything  in  Bashan  was 
upon  a  large  scale.  The  king  of  the  country  at  one  time 
was  Og.  He  was  the  last  of  the  giants,  but  neverthe¬ 
less  the  Israelites  *  smote  him  until  none  was  left  to  him 
remaining.'  He  was  a  sovereign  who  was  notable  for  the 
fact  that  he  possessed  an  iron  bedstead.  This  bedstead 
was  nine  cubits  long,  from  which  it  may  be  gathered — 
if  the  cubit  be  taken  at  eighteen  inches — that  Og  was  over 
twelve  feet  in  height.  The  bedstead  was  at  one  time  ‘  in 
Rabbath  of  the  children  of  Ammon,'  and  it  is  a  remarkable 
circumstance  that  it  is  not  shown  to  the  tourist  of  the  day. 
This  is  the  only  grave  oversight  of  the  kind  I  noted  in 
the  Holy  Land. 

The  tableland  is  a  dead  brown  flat,  boundless,  treeless, 
and  featureless.  It  extends  all  the  way  to  Damascus,  a 
monotonous  desert  of  chocolate  mud.  In  some  places 
the  mud  is  thickly  covered  with  stones  ;  in  other  places 
there  are  no  stones.  This  agreeable  variation  provides 
the  only  relief  in  the  scene.  The  traveller,  after  gazing 
out  of  the  window  at  ten  square  miles  of  level  mud  on 
one  side  and  the  same  amount  on  the  other,  sleeps  for 
an  hour,  or  reads  for  an  hour,  and  then  looks  forth  again  to 
see  still  the  desert  of  mud  stretching  away  to  the  horizon. 
The  Hauran  is,  I  should  imagine,  unique  in  its  power  of 
presenting  the  fullest  realisation  of  boredom. 


THE  ASCENT  TO  DAMASCUS 


203 


In  the  days  of  King  Og  of  the  iron  bedstead  this  plateau 
was  covered  with  habitations,  with  no  less  than  three¬ 
score  cities,  and  the  same,  moreover,  were  cities  *  fenced 
with  high  walls,  gates,  and  bars ;  beside  unwalled 
towns  a  great  many/  During  the  present  journey  we 
passed,  at  very  rare  intervals,  a  dejected  village  made 
up  of  square  blocks  of  brown  earth.  Around  certain  of 
these  villages  was  a  high  wall,  built  for  no  apparent 
purpose  other  than  to  keep  out  the  surrounding  mud. 
It  can  hardly  be  supposed  that  anyone  would  wish  to 
enter  one  of  these  cities  of  the  plain,  or  still  less  to  take 
it  by  assault.  It  was  a  curious  fact  that  these  settle¬ 
ments  of  men  were  placed,  for  the  most  part,  far  from  the 
railway — as  if  the  inhabitants  wished  to  enjoy  the  mud 
in  selfish  peace — and  that  very  few  specimens  of  the 
mud-dwellers  themselves  were  ever  to  be  seen. 

We  stopped  at  certain  stations  without  evident 
object,  for  from  the  majority  of  them  no  trace  of  human 
habitation  could  be  perceived.  It  would  seem  as  if 
the  railway  builders,  when  strained  to  the  utmost  by 
accumulative  boredom,  had  sought  relief  in  the  dissipation 
of  erecting  a  station.  A  station  consists  of  an  unhappy 
block  house  of  stone,  a  water  tank,  and  miscellaneous 
railway  litter  planted  casually  in  the  centre  of  a  rust- 
coloured  plain  as  bare  as  a  sheet  of  iron.  So  far  as  I 
could  judge  the  present  purpose  of  these  stations  is  to  give 
to  the  officials  on  the  train  an  opportunity  of  speech 
with  their  fellow-men.  I  saw  no  other  business  transacted, 
while  the  appearance  of  a  passenger — an  event  that  we  were 
happily  spared — would  have  produced  almost  a  panic. 

An  exception  must  be  made  of  Derat,  a  town  of  4000 


204 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


inhabitants,  forty-seven  miles  from  Semakh,  where  there 
was  what  the  Americans  would  call  ‘  quite  a  station,'  and 
not  only  a  station  but  a  very  excellent  refreshment  room 
and  even  passengers.  Derat  is  the  ancient  Edrei  where 
the  unfortunate  King  Og — ^his  iron  bedstead  notwith¬ 
standing — sustained  his  final  and  most  disastrous  defeat. 
It  presents  a  somewhat  rare  assortment  of  ‘  sights,' 
viz.  a  reservoir,  the  ruins  of  a  Roman  bath,  sub¬ 
terranean  dwellings  described  as  ‘  labyrinthine,'  an 
inaccessible  mausoleum,  and  a  hall  for  prayer.  Derat 
is,  moreover,  the  junction  for  Mecca,  and  it  may  be 
assumed  that  as  each  train  arrives  the  porters  call  out 
in  Arabic  :  ‘  Change  here  for  Mecca.'  Not  far  from  it  is 
another  station  of  note  named  El-Muzeirib,  where  the 
pilgrim  caravan  halts  for  several  days  both  in  going  to 
and  in  returning  from  Mecca. 

In  justice  to  the  Hauran  it  should  be  said  that  it  poured 
with  rain  during  the  many  hours  we  spent  in  traversing 
the  plateau,  so  that  what  was  mud  may  under  happier 
circumstances  be  good  brown  earth.  Moreover  this  very 
earth  is  so  exceedingly  fertile  that  the  entire  tableland 
is  a  great  grain-producing  district.  At  the  time  of  our 
crossing  it  was  a  ploughed  field,  levelled  by  the  rain  ;  but 
in  a  few  weeks  the  corn  would  be  breaking  forth,  and  the 
monotony  of  brown  would  be  changed  for  a  monotony 
of  green. 

After  what  appeared  to  be  days  of  crawling  through 
a  mud  desert  in  the  rain  land  was  sighted  to  the  left,  in 
the  form  of  low  hills  capped  by  a  height  covered  with  snow. 
We  hailed  this  vision  with  so  great  delight  that  we  might 
have  been  excused  if  we  had  exclaimed  '  The  land  1  The 


THE  ASCENT  TO  DAMASCUS 


205 


land!’  just  as  the  ten  thousand  cried  out  ‘The  seal 
The  sea  1  ’  when,  after  their  dreary  march,  they  came 
within  sight  of  the  Euxine.  The  hills  were  the  southern 
end  of  the  Anti-Lebanon  range  and  the  snow  peak  was 
Mount  Hermon.  Mount  Hermon  has  an  altitude  of 
9380  feet.  It  presented  on  this  occasion  a  singularly 
beautiful  appearance,  a  dove-coloured  peak  with  a  sum¬ 
mit  of  dazzling  white — for  the  sun  shone  on  the  snow 
— standing  up  against  a  sky  of  unbroken  grey.  In  its 
general  outline  it  recalled  the  exquisite  mountain  of 
Fujiyama  in  Japan. 

We  reached  Damascus  at  7  p.m.  The  rain  had  ceased 

'  I 

and  the  night  was  clear.  Now  Damascus  is  not  only  the 
largest  city  in  Syria,  but  it  is  one  of  the  great  cities  of 
the  world,  and  is  at  the  same  time  probably  the  most 
ancient  of  all  existing  towns.  It  has  long  outlived  its 
contemporaries,  Nineveh  and  Babylon,  while  its  popula¬ 
tion  is  estimated  at  200,000.  One  v/ould  feel  assured 
that  the  traveller’s  arrival  at  Damascus,  even  at  night, 
would  be  a  notable  matter,  or  at  least  a  matter  of  which 
he  would  be  conscious.  One  would  expect  a  brilliantly 
illumined  station  with  many  offices,  a  platform  crowded 
with  porters,  station  officials,  and  awaiting  friends,  with 
outside  a  yard  full  of  cabs,  and  beyond  that  the  lights  of 
a  great  city.  It  would  be  reasonable  to  imagine,  for 
example,  that  the  arrival  at  Damascus  by  train  would 
be  no  less  a  circumstance  than  a  like  arrival  at  Con¬ 
stantinople  or  Cairo.  As  a  matter  of  fact  there  are  none 
of  these  things  at  Damascus,  and  the  still  greater  anomaly 
exists  that  the  voyager  by  train  does  not  ‘  arrive  ’  at 
Damascus,  or,  in  other  words,  there  is  no  evident 


206 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


moment  that  marks — as  it  marks  elsewhere — the  act  of 
arriving. 

What  happened  in  this  city,  where  no  man  ‘  arrives/ 
was  the  following.  The  train,  which  had  been  crawling 
in  the  dark  for  seeming  hours,  slowed  down  and  finally 
stopped.  It  had  done  the  same  thing  many  times 
before.  I  looked  out  of  the  window  mechanically  and 
saw  nothing — saw  less  indeed  than  was  apparent  at  some 
stations  on  the  plateau.  As  I  was  proceeding  to  sink 
again  into  a  state  of  torpor  the  dragoman  appeared  and 
announced  that  '  this '  was  Damascus.  ‘  This  ’  was 
merely  the  silent  night  and  a  lagoon  of  mud.  Into  the 
lagoon  we  stepped,  and  as  the  mud  poured  icily  over  the 
tops  of  my  shoes  I  perceived  rails  projecting  above  the 
flood,  which  showed  that  we  were  on  a  railway  and  not 
in  a  lake.  There  was  no  trace  of  any  town,  nor  was  there 
a  vestige  of  any  station,  nor  even  a  glimmer  of  a  lamp, 
but  by  the  light  of  a  five-days-old  moon  it  was  possible 
to  make  out  a  clump  of  cabs  and  a  few  ragged  men  rising 
out  of  the  waters.  Attention  was  directed  to  this 
gathering  by  the  fact  that  the  men  were  screaming  at 
one  another  with  great  intenseness,  and  had  probably 
been  so  occupied  for  hours  before  the  train  arrived.  We 
waded  to  a  cab,  the  floor  of  which  proved  to  be  the 
nearest  dry  land,  and  proceeded  to  drive  into  the  night. 

We  were  told  that  the  drive  to  the  hotel  would  occupy 
one  hour,  and  the  estimate  proved  to  be  true.  In  time 
we  came  to  a  town,  to  tram  lines,  to  electric  lamps  raised 
aloft  upon  rough  poles,  to  a  street  full  of  silent  shops 
barricaded  with  odd  fragments  of  wood  and  generally 
hung  about  with  rags.  This  was  a  suburb  of  Damascus 


THE  ASCENT  TO  DAMASCUS 


207 

called  El  Meidan,  a  suburb  in  tatters,  containing  many 
men  and  much  mud. 

On  reaching  the  hotel  we  found  it  closed  and  appar¬ 
ently  vacated.  The  household  being,  however,  merely 
unconscious,  had  need  to  be  aroused.  Our  telegram  had 
not  arrived,  so  we  were  not  expected.  This  experience, 
together  with  others,  revealed  the  fact  that  although 
there  are  telegraph  offices  in  Palestine,  where  telegrams 
may  be  received  and  paid  for,  it  is  not  to  be  inferred 
that  any  subsequent  phenomena  will  develop.  The  fact 
that  a  telegram  is  left  at  a  telegraph  office  does  not 
imply  that  the  message  will  ever  leave  the  office,  or,  if 
dispatched,  will  ever  arrive  elsewhere.  On  this  particular 
occasion  our  telegram  did  arrive,  but  not  until  we  had 
been  in  Damascus  two  days.  We  found  ourselves  the 
sole  guests  in  a  very  spacious  hotel,  which  same  proved 
to  be  the  most  comfortable  of  any  we  had  happened  upon 
in  the  present  journeying. 


I 


XXV 

THE  CITY  FROM  THE  HILL 

The  city  of  Damascus  is  in  many  ways  wonderful, 
in  certain  ways  unique.  It  occupies  a  green  oasis,  level 
as  a  lawn,  in  one  of  the  desert  places  of  the  earth.  To  the 
north  of  it  rise  the  destitute  hills  of  the  Anti-Lebanon  ; 
to  the  east  stretches  the  Syrian  desert ;  to  the  west  is 
the  bald  range  of  Mount  Hermon ;  while  on  the  south  are 
the  unprofitable  slopes  that  lead  up  to  the  plateau  of  the 
Hauran.  To  a  migratory  bird  it  would  appear  as  a  green 
pool  in  the  midst  of  a  miserable  waste. 

There  are  those  who  claim  that  Damascus  is  the  oldest 
city  in  the  world,  the  one  ‘  abiding  city'  whose  fitful  story 
can  be  traced  through  all  known  ages  into  the  shadowy 
immeasurable  past.  When  Rome  was  new  Damascus 
was  already  old ;  when  the  foundations  of  London 
were  being  laid  by  the  Walbrook  and  on  Tower  Hill 
Damascus  was  a  venerable  city,  weighed  down  by  years, 
but  still  bustling  and  prosperous.  It  was  to  Hobah, 
‘  which  is  on  the  left  hand  of  Damascus,'  that  Abraham 
pursued  the  bandits  who  had  seized  his  nephew  Lot,  a 
citizen  of  Sodom,  together  with  his  goods.  This  record 
shows  that  even  in  the  days  of  Chedorlaomer  the  king 

208 


DAMASCUS  ;  FROM  THE  HILL 


THE  CITY  FROM  THE  HILL 


209 


of  Elam,  of  Tidal  king  of  nations,  and  of  Arioch  king  of 
Ellasar,  Damascus  was  a  landmark  of  some  note.  More¬ 
over,  when  David  slew  no  less  than  twenty-two  thousand 
Syrians  of  Damascus  who  had  come  to  the  succour  of 
Hadadezer  king  of  Zobah  the  place  must  have  been  a 
stronghold  of  solid  proportions,  for  a  garrison  of  over 
twenty  thousand  men  can  hail  from  no  mean  city.  David 
is  reputed  to  have  reigned  between  the  years  1032  and 
992  B.C.,  yet  even  so  far  back  as  1501  b.c.  Damascus  finds 
a  place  in  the  historical  records  of  Egypt.  Certain  is  it 
that  Damascus  was  a  centre  of  enlightenment  and  of 
bold  affairs  at  a  time  when  the  island  of  Great  Britain 
was  a  damp  jungle  in  which  a  few  mop-headed  savages 
prowled  about  armed  with  flints. 

The  city  no  doubt  has  had  its  evil  days,  its  visitations 
of  war,  pestilence,  and  fire,  but  it  would  appear  to  have 
never  been  for  long  cast  down.  One  can  believe  that 
it  must  have  possessed  some  fountain  of  eternal  youth 
that  bubbled  in  its  midst,  so  that  the  throng  in  its  streets 
never  lessened,  nor  was  the  voice  of  joy  and  contentment 
ever  hushed  in  the  gardens  without  its  walls.  However 
crushing  may  have  been  the  disaster  that  befeU  it, 
Damascus  soon  sprang  again  into  the  sun,  cheery  and 
radiant,  just  as  a  gorse  down,  after  it  has  been  swept  by 
fire,  becomes  only  the  greener  in  the  summer  that  follows 
on.  Damascus  would  seem,  throughout  the  whole  of  its 
history,  to  have  been  great  and  prosperous,  and  it  is 
great  and  prosperous  still.  It  was  some  time  ago  foretold 
that  this  purely  oriental  and  arrogantly  conservative 
city  would  languish  into  nothingness  upon  the  advance 
of  modern  science  and  modern  methods  of  manufacture 


210 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


and  of  commerce,  but  the  town  of  to-day  shows  no  signs 
but  those  of  vigour,  solid  comfort,  and  self-satisfaction. 
Even  the  blight  of  Turkish  rule  has  failed  to  dim  the 
brightness  of  its  people  or  the  vivacity  of  its  marts. 

Damascus  in  the  past,  the  records  say,  was  attacked 
by  every  known  power  in  the  ancient  world,  from  the 
cultured  Romans  and  the  Franks  to  the  savage  hordes 
of  Mongols  under  Timur.  The  city  has  been  raided  by 
the  Egyptians  and  the  Assyrians,  by  the  Arabs  and  the 
Armenians,  by  the  Persians,  the  Greeks,  and  the  Turks, 
while  even  the  Crusaders  at  one  period  made  a  half¬ 
hearted  assault  upon  the  Immortal  City  which  came 
to  nothing.  It  follows  that  Damascus  has  had  many 
masters,  but  whether  the  city  was,  for  the  time  being, 
Roman  or  Egyptian,  Persian  or  Arab,  it  seems  to  have 
ever  preserved  its  indestructible  personality. 

This  perennial  freshness,  this  power  of  remaining 
unchanged  in  a  changing  world,  have  depended  upon 
many  things.  In  the  first  place  this  Damascus  in  the 
desert  possesses  a  treasure  which  is  inexhaustible  and 
which  is  to  be  found  in  no  place  nigh  unto  it.  This 
treasure  is  a  garden  with  a  circuit  of  many  miles,  where 
drought  is  unknown  and  where  the  luxuriant  soil  can 
produce  all  that  is  wanted  for  the  immediate  needs  of 
man,  for  ‘  out  of  the  ground  made  the  Lord  God  to 
grow  every  tree  that  is  pleasant  to  the  sight,  and  good 
for  food.'  The  rivers  that  water  the  garden  may  have 
come  out  of  Eden  and  may  have  encompassed  that  land 
of  Havilah  ‘  where  there  is  gold.'  ‘  Are  not  Abana  and 
Pharpar,  rivers  of  Damascus,  better  than  all  the  waters 
of  Israel  ?  '  asked  Naaman  the  leper ;  and  the  answer 


THE  CITY  FROM  THE  HILL 


2II 


is  they  are  better  than  them  all,  for  they  have  made 
of  the  place  ‘  a  fountain  of  gardens,  a  well  of  living 
waters/ 

More  than  this,  Damascus  stood  like  a  vast  caravan¬ 
serai  at  the  cross  roads  of  the  ancient  world.  It  stood 
in  the  way  that  was  traversed  in  the  great  migration  of 
the  human  race,  when  men  moved  from  the  East  west¬ 
wards,  when  the  spirit  of  wandering  and  of  adventure  led 
eager  hordes  to  pass,  like  a  swarm  of  bees,  from  some 
thronged  and  restless  hive  in  the  depths  of  Asia  into  the 
empty,  silent  lands  of  Europe.  Damascus  was  planted 
upon  the  highway  that  reached  from  Nineveh  and 
Babylon  on  the  east  to  that  great  sea  in  the  west  whose 
waters  spread  beyond  the  limits  of  the  known  world.  It 
stood  in  the  way,  too,  of  that  road  that  came  up  from  the 
south,  from  the  lands  of  ancient  Egypt  and  the  wastes  of 
Arabia,  to  press  northwards  in  search  of  new  worlds  and 
fresh  enterprise.  Through  the  streets  of  Damascus,  through 
the  street  which  is  called  Straight,  came,  with  jingling  bells 
and  brilliant  burdens,  the  camel  caravans  from  the  Tigris 
and  the  Euphrates  and  the  lands  beyond.  Up  to  Damas¬ 
cus  tramped  rugged  seamen  from  the  coast  of  Phoenicia, 
men  whose  boats  lay  rocking  in  the  harbours  of  Tyre 
and  Sidon,  bringing  with  them  skins  and  strange  metals 
and  tales  of  lands  and  of  people  stranger  still.  It  was 
in  Damascus  that  the  men  of  the  sea,  who  had  looked 
upon  the  white  cliffs  of  England,  bartered,  by  signs  and 
gestures,  with  the  men  of  the  desert  who  had  passed 
through  the  land  of  Assyria  and  could  tell  of  the  wide, 
mysterious  world  that  stretched  beyond  the  rivers  to¬ 
wards  the  rising  sun.  Thus  Damascus  stood  at  the  spot 


212 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


where  the  two  great  highways  met  along  which  passed  the 
commerce  and  the  armies  of  the  ancient  world. 

Damascus  is  said  stiU  to  be  the  most  oriental  of  all 
great  cities  of  the  present  day,  the  city  the  least  changed, 
the  most  in  communion  with  the  affairs  and  the  peoples 
of  the  past,  and  the  best  fitted  for  any  conception  of  the 
romance  of  the  East.  The  reason  for  this  is  not  far  to 
seek.  Damascus  is  still  a  great  market  of  exchange 
between  the  East  and  the  West.  Side  by  side  in  one 
shop  may  be  found  the  latest  American  safety  razor  and 
a  specimen  of  Persian  metal  work  five  centuries  old. 
You  may  buy  in  the  town  a  cotton  print  of  convulsive 
pattern  that  left  the  steam  factory  in  Manchester  but  a 
few  weeks  ago,  or  a  praying  carpet,  so  faint  in  tints  as 
to  be  almost  a  shadow,  that  was  knelt  on  by  some 
devout  Moslem  when  Crusaders  were  harrying  the  land. 
From  Damascus  still  leads  the  caravan  route  across  the 
desert  to  Bagdad  and  the  Persian  Gulf.  Wild  men 
and  their  ragged  camels  stalk  through  the  bazaars  of  the 
city  who  have  come  from  Kurdistan,  from  the  Zagros 
Mountains  and  even  from  the  Caspian  Sea.  It  is  from 
Damascus  that  the  famous  pilgrim  road  to  Mecca  starts 
on  its  long  journey  to  the  holy  south.  It  is  from 
Damascus  that  the  traveller  must  set  out  who  would  go 
to  Palmyra,  to  the  wonderful  Street  of  Columns,  and  to 
that  great  temple  of  the  sun  which  was  dedicated  to 
Baal. 

It  is  possible  in  Damascus  to  alight  from  an  electric 
tramcar  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  the  camels  unload  in 
the  great  Khan,  camels  that  have  forded  the  Euphrates 
and  have  been  on  the  journey  as  many  weeks  as  a  steamer 


THE  CITY  FROM  THE  HILL 


213 


would  take  days  to  go  from  England  to  the  Cape  of  Good 
Hope  and  back.  Here  can  be  seen  the  solemn  merchant 
sitting  cross-legged  at  the  receipt  of  custom,  duly  robed 
and  turbaned,  the  scribe  busy  at  the  corner  of  the  street, 
the  water-carrier  with  his  dripping  goat-skin,  and  the 
story-teller  entrancing  a  group  of  idlers  by  the  gate.  Here 
can  be  heard  the  call  of  the  muezzin  from  the  mosque, 
the  hubbub  around  so  little  a  bargain  as  the  selling  of 
two  sparrows  for  a  farthing,  and  the  hammer  of  a  man 
who,  in  his  garb,  aspect,  and  methods,  differs  in  no  essential 
from  that  Alexander  the  coppersmith  who  did  much  evil. 

At  the  north-west  corner  of  Damascus  the  hills 
come  close  to  the  city,  so  close  indeed  that  the  precipice 
of  Jebel  Kasyun  actually  overhangs  the  town.  This 
mass  of  bleak  stone,  3700  feet  in  height,  is  notable  in  the 
beauty  of  its  colouring,  in  its  tints  of  yellow  and  brown, 
the  yellow  being  drifts  of  sand,  the  brown  being  masses  of 
outstanding  rock.  The  hill  is  a  hill  of  great  fascination 
when  viewed,  with  the  sunlight  upon  it,  against  a  back¬ 
ground  of  blue  sky.  It  is  bare  of  any  trace  of  life,  of 
even  a  weed  or  a  blade  of  grass.  It  might  indeed  be  a^ 
mountain  of  iron  dusted  with  a  chocolate-coloured  rust, 
while  its  very  grimness,  dryness,  and  barrenness  contrast 
vividly  with  the  rose-loving,  fountain-splashing  city  at 
its  foot.  The  best  view  of  Damascus — the  one  supreme 
view — is  to  be  obtained  from  Jebel  Kasyun,  either  just 
above  the  suburb  of  Es  Salehiyeh,  or  from  a  point  higher 
still — such  as  the  ruined  Dome  of  Victory  or  the  Tomb  of 
the  Seven  Sleeping  Brothers.  It  is  one  of  the  never-to-be- 
forgotten  prospects  that  the  world  provides.  From 
my  own  experience  I  would  say  that  there  is  no  view  of 


214  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

a  city  from  a  height  to  be  compared  with  it.  The  prospect 
of  Cairo  from  the  citadel,  or  of  Florence  from  the  Torre 
al  Gallo,  are  charming  enough,  but  they  cannot  approach 
to  the  wonder  of  the  view  over  Damascus  from  the  tomb 
where  the  brothers  sleep. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  hill  the  plain  stretches  straight 
away  to  the  horizon,  where  it  is  lost  in  a  blue  haze  as  if 
in  a  vast  lagoon.  On  either  side  of  the  plain,  but  many 
miles  away,  are  low,  purple  hills  which  run  parallel  to 
one  another  until  they  too  are  lost  in  the  far  mists.  Within 
these  delectable  boundaries  lies  a  garden  of  trees  that, 
from  the  mountain,  looks  like  a  well-trimmed  wood,  but 
it  is  a  wood  of  orange  trees  and  poplars,  of  walnut  trees 
and  roses,  of  plum  trees  and  pomegranates,  of  apricots 
and  almonds,  of  shady  walks,  of  pergolas,  of  vineyards 
and  reedy  pools.  There  is  no  garden  comparable  with  it, 
for  it  extends  towards  the  south  and  the  east  for  no  less 
than  nine  miles,  while  buried  among  its  shadows  are 
over  one  hundred  villages. 

In  the  midst  of  this  garden  is  the  city,  a  brilliant  sand- 
coloured  plaque  inlaid  in  green,  just  as  a  piece  of  ivory 
is  inlaid  in  the  lid  of  a  Damascene  casket  or  as  a  bright 
pebble  is  embedded  in  a  mat  of  moss.  The  outline  of 
the  city  is  sharply  cut.  It  has  the  shape  of  a  hand 
mirror,  the  handle  being  the  narrow,  long  extended  suburb 
of  El  Meidan.  The  general  colour  of  the  city,  as  it 
gleams  in  the  sun,  is  a  bright,  yellowish  brown,  but  it  is 
mottled  with  white,  with  grey,  and  with  faint  blue.  In 
the  matter  of  tint  it  is  most  fitting  to  be  compared  with 
a  sand  dune  covered  with  seaguUs  and  hidden  in  a  green 
thicket.  There  are  details  in  this  bright  splash  of  colour 


215 


THE  CITY  FROM  THE  HILL 

which  are  only  perceived  when  the  first  shock  of  admira¬ 
tion  has  passed  away — the  details  of  minarets  and 
towers,  of  cupolas  and  domes,  together  with  flat  roofs  at 
varying  levels  to  the  number  of  many  thousands. 

If  it  be  realised  that  the  expanse  is  immense,  that 
the  white  minarets  stand  up  against  the  blue  of  the 
lagoon  of  mist,  and  that  beyond  them  all  is  a  clear  sky 
with  woolpack  clouds  resting  on  the  edge  of  the  world, 
it  will  be  understood  that  the  view  is  one  of  amazing 
fascination. 

It  was  at  three  o’clock  in  the  afternoon  that  we  saw 
the  city  from  the  hill,  and  at  the  moment  when  the  magic 
of  the  scene  was  the  most  absorbing  the  cry  of  the 
muezzin  rose  like  the  song  of  a  bird  from  the  galleries 
of  a  score  of  mosques. 


XXVI 


naaman's  river 

Damascus  is  large,  and  the  crowd  that  throngs  its  endless 

streets  is  not  only  vast  but  infinitely  varied.  This  was 

especially  to  be  noted  at  the  time  of  our  visit,  when 

pilgrims  from  Mecca  were  pouring  into  the  city,  day 

after  day,  to  the  number  of  thousands.  Great  and 

heterogeneous  as  is  the  crowd  it  is  in  good  heart.  Every 

one  appears  to  be  cheerful  and  to  be  quietly  content. 

There  is  lacking  that  cloud  of  melancholy  which  hangs, 

like  impending  fate,  over  Jerusalem,  and  which  fills  its 

lanes  with  the  abject,  the  purposeless,  and  the  whining. 

The  people  of  Damascus  chatter  like  daws  as  they  hurry 

about  their  business,  while  the  slinking  wretch  who 

creeps  silently  along,  hugging  his  empty  stomach  and  his 

flapping  rags,  is  rare  to  see.  There  are  very  few  beggars 

in  Damascus.  One  misses,  too,  with  relief  the  rabble  of 

hollow-eyed  children,  blue  with  the  cold,  who  ever  clamour 

for  baksheesh,  as  well  as  that  awful  company  of  the 

maimed,  the  halt,  and  the  blind  who  seem  to  have  escaped 

alive  from  a  morgue.  Compared  with  Jerusalem  there 

are  more  cafes  in  Damascus  and  less  religion.  The 

town  may  be  the  better  or  the  worse  for  this,  but  it  loses 

216 


ABRAHAM’S  OAK,  DAMASCUS 


t 


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f 


■ 


I 


i 


/ 


. 


N  A  AM  AN’S  RIVER 


217 


nothing  in  cheeriness  nor  in  the  outward  signs  of  well¬ 
being.  A  city,  as  a  human  settlement,  is  to  be  gauged 
by  its  suburbs,  and  the  suburbs  of  Damascus  are  good 
to  linger  in. 

The  streets  are  fairly  wide,  the  passages  in  the  bazaar 
are  spacious.  Slums  there  are,  no  doubt,  but  they  do  not 
obtrude  themselves,  while  I  came  upon  few  of  those 
fetid  aUey-ways  where  the  sunless  walls  drip  misery,  and 
where  the  figure  of  a  man  groping  for  a  mouldy  door 
presents  the  most  terrible  picture  of  ‘  home  ’  that  the 
tale  of  humanity  can  provide.  The  sanitation  in  Damas¬ 
cus  is  no  doubt  ^  oriental,’  but  the  place  is,  by  comparison, 
clean,  and  by  appearance  wholesome,  while  the  filth 
and  stenches  of  a  town  like  Tiberias  are  unknown. 

Then,  again,  the  Damascene  is  a  lover  of  trees. 
Wherever  a  tree  can  grow  there  will  a  tree  be  found, 
so  that  there  are  few  open  streets  where  a  splash  of  green 
is  not  to  be  met  with.  The  most  remarkable  tree  in  the 
city  is  a  venerable  plane  or  sycamore,  called  '  Abraham’s 
oak.’  It  stands  near  the  bazaar  of  the  carpenters. 
Its  age  must  be  extreme,  for  its  trunk  is  now  a  mere 
grey  shell  that  looks  like  a  tent  with  the  door  thrown 
open.  Furthermore  the  Damascene  is  a  lover  of  gardens, 
and  thus  it  is  that  wherever  there  is  space  for  a  garden 
there  a  garden  flourishes.  It  would  be  curious  to  happen 
upon  a  pergola  covered  with  creepers  in  a  corner  of 
Lombard  Street,  or  in  a  gap  in  the  Rue  des  Petits  Champs, 
yet  such  a  spectacle  is  provided,  over  and  over  again,  in 
the  centre  of  the  busiest  quarter  of  Damascus.  In  some 
parts  of  the  city,  especially  towards  the  walls,  there  is 
hardly  a  house,  poor  though  it  be,  that  has  not,  on  its 


2i8 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


flat  roof,  an  arbour  shaded  by  a  spreading  vine.  The 
arbour-builder  is  the  better  for  his  work,  and  the  children 
who  play  under  the  trellis  gain  a  greater  share  of  that 
peace  which  passeth  all  understanding  than  do  the  little 
urchins  who  build  mud  grottoes  under  the  precipice 
of  bricks  that  constitutes  a  modern  industrial  dwelling. 
Damascus,  therefore,  in  spite  of  aU  recent  developments 
elsewhere,  is  still  pre-eminently  the  Garden  City. 

The  vitality  of  the  town,  and  indeed  its  very  existence, 
depend  upon  the  two  famous  rivers,  the  Abana  and  the 
Pharpar.  The  Pharpar  comes  to  the  plain  from  the 
range  of  Mount  Hermon.  It  brings  water  to  the  more 
distant  gardens,  but  has  no  concern  with  the  city  itself, 
being,  in  point  of  fact,  some  seven  miles  beyond  the 
circuit  of  its  walls.  The  Abana,  or,  as  it  is  now  called, 
the  Barada,  has  its  sources  among  the  slopes  of  Anti- 
Lebanon.  Above  Damascus  the  river  breaks  up  into 
some  seven  streams,  two  of  which  go  direct  to  the  city. 
It  is  dn  the  north-west  corner  of  the  town,  about  the 
foot  of  Jebel  Kasyun,  that  the  Barada  makes  its  entry 
into  Damascus.  It  is  a  cheery  stream,  dancing  along 
with  all  the  impetuosity  of  youth.  It  keeps  at  first  to 
a  staid  channel,  beneath  orderly  bridges,  but  when  it 
reaches  the  actual  town — when  it  should  be  the  most 
decorous — it  suddenly  dives  underground  and  disappears. 

From  this  point  the  river  and  its  thousand  streams 
play  a  mad  frolic  in  the  place,  a  gambol  of  hide  and  seek 
with  aU  the  merriness,  the  mischievousness,  the  elfishness 
of  Puck.  What  tricks  it  perpetrates  beneath  the 
square  where  the  camels  wait  I  do  not  know,  but  it 
turns  up  again,  bubbling  with  laughter,  by  the  fruit 


NAAMAN’S  RIVER 


219 


market,  makes  happy  a  garden  or  two,  cheers  a  dull 
street,  whispers  music  under  a  cafe  wall,  and  then  bolts 
out  of  sight  beneath  a  sober  house  to  begin  its  under¬ 
ground  pranks  once  more.  I  spent  a  morning  following 
this  sprite  of  a  river,  this  Robin  Goodfellow  of  a  stream, 
but  was  compelled  to  abandon  the  chase  as  too  bewilder¬ 
ing.  It  was  impossible  to  believe  that  this  frivolous, 
gossiping  stream  was  the  ancient  Abana  for  which 
Naaman  the  Syrian  had  so  reverent  a  regard,  or  that 
such  a  flibbertigibbet  could  be  responsible  for  supplying 
electric  power  to  the  tramway  company  of  Damascus. 

The  river  breaks  up  in  the  town,  as  already  said,  into 
a  tangle  of  streams  which  penetrate  to  every  nook  and 
corner  of  the  city.  You  peep  through  the  back  door  of 
a  humble  shop  and  there,  beyond  the  stone  courtyard, 
is  the  stream.  In  a  gap  in  a  street  you  hear  the  splashing 
of  water,  and  behold,  over  a  parapet  is  the  madcap  river 
welling  up  from  under  the  road.  Its  waters  eddy  through 
a  hundred  gardens,  drop  into  a  hundred  pools,  and 
splash  the  pigeons  that  come  to  drink  at  innumerable 
fountains. 

Just  outside  the  town  the  Barada  emerges  as  a 
somewhat  meek  little  stream,  shorn  of  its  blithesomeness, 
slower  of  foot,  and  so  sobered  as  to  be  wellnigh  silent. 
It  is  no  longer  impetuous  ;  it  no  longer  rollicks  along  ; 
it  has  been  sullied  by  the  city  ;  its  waters  have  become 
dull.  The  Abana  is  middle-aged,  disillusioned,  and  tired 
of  the  world. 

The  end  of  the  once  joyous  river  is  very  sad.  It 
wanders  listlessly  among  the  orchards  and  the  flelds. 
Plum  blossoms  and  rose  petals  fall  unheeded  upon  its 


220 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


sallow  surface.  The  merry  life  has  come  to  a  close,  and 
the  happy  company  that  danced  into  the  city  is  broken 
up.  The  weary  stream  never  reaches  the  sea.  It  enters 
into  a  sullen  and  unsympathetic  marsh.  It  hides  its 
face  in  the  mud,  among  the  barren  rushes,  and  in  this 
Slough  of  Despond  it  dies. 


THE  RIVER  ABANA  I  JUST  BEYOND  DAMASCUS 


f 


XXVII 

THE  STREETS  OF  THE  ^  ARABIAN  NIGHTS '  CITY  > 

The  charm  and  interest  of  Damascus  lie  solely  in  its 
streets  and  in  the  people  that  fill  them.  With  the 
exception  of  the  Great  Mosque  there  are  no  public 
buildings  in  the  town  of  any  especial  concern.  There 
are  few  sacred  sites,  spurious  or  otherwise,  to  visit. 
There  are  practically  no  antiquities  to  muse  over,  for 
Damascus  has  so  little  care  for  the  past  that  within  its 
walls  ^  there  is  no  remembrance  of  former  things.'  It 
may  disregard  the  past,  but  it  lives  in  it.  It  belongs 
to  the  world  as  it  was  many  centuries  ago.  In  not  a 
few  particulars  it  has  kept  unchanged  since  the  days 
of  Christ.  It  carries  the  visitor  back  into  mysterious 
ages— not  as  Egypt  does,  by  means  of  monuments  and 
symbols  and  things  that  have  been  buried  with  the 
dead,  but  by  the  pageant  actually  played  by  living 
human  beings  before  the  eyes  of  the  onlooker. 

Here  are  to  be  seen  customs  and  modes  of  dress 
which  are  as  old  as  history,  details  of  living  and  processes 
of  manufacture  which  appear  to  the  traveller  now  just 
as  they  did  to  the  visitor  from  Babylon.  There  are  still 
looms  at  work  in  Damascus  which  differ  but  little  from 


221 


222 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


those  that  kept  deft,  yellow  fingers  busy  at  the  time 
when  the  caliphs  reigned.  There  are  shops  which,  with 
their  particular  goods,  would  be  as  familiar  to  the 
Damascene  of  four  centuries  ago  as  they  are  to  the 
citizen  of  to-day. 

Damascus  is  a  city  of  magic  in  whose  streets  are  pre¬ 
sented  the  daily  doings  of  a  world  which  is  but  little 
nearer  than  is  the  world  of  dreams.  It  is  a  city  that 
played  an  intimate  part  in  the  tales  of  the  ‘  Thousand 
and  one  Nights.'  Indeed,  some  of  the  strangest  happen¬ 
ings  that  those  nights  record  took  place  by  the  banks  of 
the  Abana.  It  is  still  the  city  of  the  ancient  stories,  for 
it  has  altered  but  little  since  the  fair  Shahrazad  told  the 
tales  to  the  king.  Here  are  the  very  streets  she  described, 
the  very  shops,  the  very  people.  It  is  possible  to  believe 
anything  in  Damascus.  It  is  only  necessary  to  walk 
through  the  lanes  at  night  to  acquire  a  faith  in  Jinns 
and  Efreets  and  those  other  abrupt  spirits  who  meddled 
in  the  affairs  of  men  when  the  caliphs  and  their  viziers 
stroUed  about  disguised  in  search  of  adventure. 

The  principal  streets  of  Damascus,  as  well  as  the 
chief  bazaars,  are  wide  enough  for  carriages  to  pass, 
while  there  are  many  narrow  lanes  of  interest  which  can 
only  be  traversed  on  foot.  There  is  that  easy  irregularity 
about  the  streets,  and  that  perverse  avoidance  of  all 
formality,  which  are  characteristic  of  the  East.  No  two 
adjacent  houses  are  of  the  same  height  or  style,  nor  do 
they  show  any  disposition  to  stand  in  order.  Some 
streets  follow  lines  so  unsteady  that  they  may  have  had 
origin  in  the  visions  of  a  town-planner  drugged  with 
hashish. 


A  STREET  IN  DAMASCUS 


THE  STREETS  OF  THE  CITY 


223 


The  majority  of  the  houses  are  built  of  wooden  frames 
filled  in  with  laths  and  pearl-grey  plaster.  On  occasion 
the  lower  story  may  be  of  black  stone  and  the  upper 
parts  of  unbaked  bricks,  while  some  of  the  humbler 
dwellings  are  fabrics  merely  of  mud  and  chopped  straw. 

Most  picturesque  in  the  residential  quarters  of  the 
city  are  the  narrow  lanes  whose  roadways  are  trodden 
earth.  Here  are  projecting  windows  propped  up  by 
sloping  beams,  projecting  stories  that  nearly  meet  across 
the  path,  suspicious  peep-holes  in  the  wall,  casements 
full  of  lattice-work,  unexpected  archways,  as  well  as 
ancient  doors  studded  with  nails,  and  windows  barred 
like  a  prison. 

I  am  sure  that  in  one  of  these  lanes  I  came  upon  the 
house  of  that  Jewish  physician  who  had  the  awful 
experience  with  the  dead  hunchback  whom  he  found 
propped  up  in  his  vestibule  (as  recorded  in  the  Twenty- 
fourth  Night),  and  who  ran  out  into  the  street  calling, 
'  O  Ezra's  ass  !  O  Heaven  and  the  Ten  Commandments  1 
O  Aaron  and  Joshua  the  son  of  Nun  !  '  ^ 

There  may  be  donkeys  asleep  in  the  lane,  or  fowls 
scratching  about,  or  an  artisan  at  work,  squatting  in  the 
road  with  his  back  to  a  wall,  while  the  path  itself  will  be 
strewn  with  straw  and  husks,  discarded  oranges,  and 
unintelligible  litter.  It  is  at  night,  when  the  moon  is 
high,  that  these  by-ways  of  the  city  are  the  most  allur¬ 
ing  and  the  most  full  of  magic.  Then  do  strange  and 
beautiful  things  appear  that  were  unnoticed  in  the  day  : 

^  This  and  subsequent  quotations  from  the  Arabian  Nights'  Entertain¬ 
ments  are  from  the  excellent  edition  of  Edward  William  Lane,  in  three 
volumes  (London,  1912); 


224  the  land  that  is  desolate 

the  black  shadows  of  balcony  railings  on  white  walls, 
the  unfathomable  gloom  of  an  entry,  the  moonlight 
on  a  veranda  and  its  empty  bench,  the  wonders  of 
light  and  of  shade  on  the  roofs.  It  is  such  a  scene  as 
this  that  enables  one  to  understand  what  is  meant  in 
the  Bible  by  ‘  the  precious  things  put  forth  by  the 
moon.' 

Many  mosques  are  come  upon,  for  there  are  some  two 
hundred  and  forty-eight  of  these  houses  of  prayer  in 
Damascus.  They  are  all  picturesquely  shabby,  for  it 
seems  to  be  an  ill  thing  to  defile  an  ancient  Moslem 
church  by  the  process  known  in  England  as  '  restoration.' 
Some  are  built  of  black  and  grey  stone  arranged  in 
horizontal  layers,  and  are  of  considerable  dignity.  Others 
are  humbler,  being  made  up  of  plaster  and  bricks,  the 
bricks  coming  in  evidence  where  the  plaster  has  fallen 
into  the  street.  To  look  for  a  second  into  the  courtyard 
of  a  mosque  is  to  gain  a  glimpse  of  such  mystery,  com¬ 
pounded  of  white  pavements,  arched  passages,  and 
slow-moving,  hooded  figures,  as  the  spectator  may  wish 
to  indulge  in.  In  incongruous  places  are  foreign-looking 
government  buildings,  very  ill  at  ease,  which  might  have 
been  translated  from  a  country  town  in  France,  as  well 
as  suburban  villas,  with  red  roofs  and  white-walled 
gardens,  which  would  be  more  in  place  at  Nice. 

The  houses  of  the  rich  in  Damascus  are  very  exu¬ 
berant.  Within  the  gate  is  a  courtyard,  open  to  the 
heavens,  and  paved  with  coloured  stones.  In  the  centre 
is  a  raised  pool  of  marble  with  a  fountain  splashing  in  it, 
while  arranged  around  the  court  are  the  living-rooms, 
just  as  in  an  ancient  posting  hotel  in  France.  The  walls 


THE  STREETS  OF  THE  CITY 


225 


are  gaudily  painted  or  are  covered  with  brilliant  tiles. 
Flower  beds  have  a  place  in  the  court,  wherein  are  orange 
and  lemon  trees,  pomegranates,  and  beautiful  shrubs. 
There  may  be  a  colonnade  with  couches  and  cushions, 
or  a  wonderful  recess  tortured  with  decoration  and 
arranged  as  a  kind  of  bourgeois  throne-room,  the  same 
corresponding  to  the  ‘  best  drawing-room  ’  of  the  Western 
world.  It  aims — as  does  the  best  drawing-room — at 
expressing  the  owner’s  conception  of  luxuriance  and 
style,  for  this  is  '  the  saloon  fitted  up  for  his  pleasure, 
that  his  bosom  might  expand  in  it.’  It  allows  for  such 
expansion,  but  it  is,  nevertheless,  stiff  and  uncomfortable, 
and  a  little  like  an  exhibitor’s  show-case. 

Decoration  in  the  principal  apartment  of  the  house 
itself  is  carried  to  such  excess  as  to  border  on  delirium. 
The  walls  seem  to  have  been  sprayed,  from  a  dozen  jets, 
with  gold  and  silver  as  well  as  with  every  colour  of  the 
spectrum,  and  to  have  been  worked  up  into  headache- 
producing  patterns  as  irritating  as  are  the  details  of  a 
silly  puzzle.  The  windows  of  this  room  are  filled  with 
lines  of  such  complexity  as  to  suggest  a  dozen  problems 
of  Euclid  thrown  together  to  make  a  framework  for  the 
glass.  The  medley  of  mirrors  and  lamps,  of  rugs  and 
pillows,  of  purposeless  hangings,  and  of  dazzling  odd¬ 
ments  in  brass,  ivory,  inlaid  wood,  and  silver,  cause  the 
room  to  be  as  full  of  discordant  ornament  as  a  parrot 
house  is  of  noise.  One  might  as  well  live  in  the  tube  of 
a  gigantic  kaleidoscope ;  yet  this  is  the  '  spacious  saloon  ’ 
of  the  '  Arabian  Nights  ’ — just  such  a  saloon  as  that  in 
which  the  lady  of  Bagdad  entertained  the  porter ;  for 
that  room,  it  may  be  remembered,  was  ‘  decorated  with 


226 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


various  colours,  and  beautifully  constructed  with  carved 
woodwork  and  fountains  and  benches  of  different  kinds, 
and  closets  with  curtains  hanging  before  them.  There 
was  also  in  it,  at  the  upper  end,  a  couch  of  alabaster, 
inlaid  with  large  pearls’  and  jewels,  with  a  mosquito 
curtain  of  red  satin  suspended  over  it.'  It  was  in  this 
apartment  that  the  porter  became  intoxicated — a  circum¬ 
stance  that  could  be  condoned  in  any  man  of  quiet 
tastes  with  a  belief  in  the  simplicity  of  the  home. 

There  is  an  ancient  wall  encompassing  the  city. 
Although  it  presents  many  a  breach,  and  is,  on  occasion, 
altogether  lacking  or  lost,  yet  an  interesting  afternoon 
may  be  spent  in  following  it  as  far  as  it  can  be  traced. 
It  is  a  shabby  and  ill-looking  wall,  old  certainly,  but  too 
disreputable  in  appearance  to  be  in  any  way  venerable. 
The  lower  courses  are  Roman,  being  composed  of  well-cut 
stones  of  immense  size.  The  middle  part  of  the  wall  is 
Arabian  and  is  made  up  of  small  irregular  stones,  from 
which  the  mortar  has  been  eaten  away  as  if  by  some 
process  of  ulceration.  The  upper  part  of  the  wall  is 
Turkish  and,  like  other  things  Turkish,  is  in  a  state  of 
ruin.  The  wall  is  pierced  in  many  places  by  odd,  in¬ 
consequent  windows  which  have  the  appearance  of  being 
greatly  surprised  to  find  themselves  looking  out  upon  the 
ditch. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  when  St.  Paul  was  in 
Damascus  ‘  they  watched  the  gates  day  and  night  to 
kill  him,'  and  that,  to  circumvent  the  unpleasant-minded 
'  they,'  ‘  the  disciples  took  him  by  night,  and  let  him 
down  by  the  wall  in  a  basket.'  It  is  needless  to  say  that 
the  lamb-like  tourist,  still  sick  from  excessive  lying,  is 


DAMASCUS  :  THE  OLD  CITY  WALL 


THE  STREETS  OF  THE  CITY 


227 


shown  the  actual  window  from  which  the  agile  apostle 
was  lowered.  The  window  may  have  an  antiquity  of 
twenty  years.  It  is  perched,  moreover,  on  the  top  of 
the  Turkish  wall.  Had  the  circumstance  occurred  in 
the  Holy  Land  the  basket  also  would  be  exhibited  at  a 
moderate  charge. 

Of  the  few  remaining  gates  of  the  city  the  most 
picturesque  is  the  East  Gate.  It  was  the  gate  from 
which  the  road  led  across  the  desert  to  Nineveh  and 
Babylon.  It  was  built  by  the  Romans,  and  it  can  readily 
be  seen  that  it  consisted,  at  one  time,  of  three  arches,  a 
large  central  entry,  with  a  small  archway  on  either  side. 
The  existing  gate  is  represented  by  one  of  the  smaller 
passages  only. 

There  is  shown  to  the  believing  in  Damascus  the 
house  where  '  a  certain  disciple  at  Damascus,  named 
Ananias '  lived.  A  narrow  door  in  a  lane  leads  to  a  paved 
courtyard  in  which  is  a  garden.  From  this  yard  steps 
descend  to  a  small  subterranean  chapel,  dark,  damp, 
ancient,  and  uninteresting.  It  contains  a  few  benches, 
such  as  are  used  in  infant  schools,  and  an  altar.  In  a 
mouldy  recess  the  home  of  Ananias — who,  like  other 
holy  folk,  would  appear  to  have  been  a  cave-dweller — 
is  pointed  out  by  an  unwilling  dragoman  who  protests 
that  he  is  not  a  party  to  the  fraud. 

As  an  antidote  to  the  spurious  house  the  traveller 
would  do  well  to  visit  the  very  genuine  hospital  of  the 
Edinburgh  Medical  Mission.  It  is  situated  beyond  the 
walls,  in  a  pleasant  suburb  which  calls  to  mind  the 
outskirts  of  Paris.  Here,  inj^’a  garden  full  of  flowers,  is 
a  hospital  which,  without  any  regard  to  nationality  or 


228 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


creed,  has  carried  out  for  long  a  most  admirable  and 
benevolent  work  under  the  direction  of  Dr.  McKinnon, 
who  has  been  resident  in  Damascus  for  over  twenty 
years. 

However  little  life  in  Damascus  may  have  changed, 
the  change  in  the  hospitals  of  the  district  has  been  very 
complete,  as  may  be  gathered  from  the  following  account 
of  the  out-patient  department  of  the  Bagdad  hospital  in 
the  days  of  the  Prince  of  the  Faithful,  as  set  forth  in  the 
'  Arabian"  Nights.’  It  appears  that  a  young  man  of  good 
position  known  as  Ghanim  the  son  of  Eiyoob,  or  the 
Distracted  Slave  of  Love,  fell  into  a  state  of  poverty  and 
ill-health.  He  was  at  last  found  leaning  against  the 
wall  of  a  village  mosque,  in  a  condition  of  sickness  and 
destitution  too  unpleasant  to  be  detailed.  The  villagers 
took  him  in  hand  and  applied  first  aid,  following  the 
same  with  certain  domestic  remedies.  These  preliminary 
measures  were  persevered  in  for  the  unreasonable 
period  of  one  month.  As  Ghanim  continued  to  get 
steadily  worse  under  the  treatment  it  was  resolved  that 
he  should  be  sent  to  the  Bagdad  hospital  for  further 
advice.  A  camel-driver  was  found  to  whom  the  following 
instruction  was  given :  ‘  Convey  this  sick  person  on  the 
camel  and,  when  thou  hast  arrived  at  Bagdad,  put  him 
down  at  the  door  of  the  hospital :  perhaps  he  may 
recover  his  health,  and  thou  wilt  receive  a  recompense.' 
It  was  evident  that  the  villagers  had  not  a  high  estimate 
of  the  hospital,  and  that  their  expedient  for  getting  rid  of 
the  sick  Slave  of  Love  was  very  extreme.  The  camel- 
driver  held  even  a  lower  opinion  of  the  institution,  for 
when  he  had  conveyed  the  helpless  man  to  the  hospital 


THE  STREETS  OF  THE  CITY 


229 


he  put  him  down  on  the  doorstep  and  promptly  departed. 
He  was  evidently  convinced  that  a  prospect  of  recompense 
depending  upon  the  professional  ability  of  the  staff  of 
the  hospital  was  based  on  grounds  so  infinitely  slight 
that  he  would  not  wait  to  see  them  materialise.  He  does 
not  seem  to  have  even  knocked  at  the  door.  Anyhow, 
the  out-patient  department  so  precisely  maintained  its 
title  that  the  sick  man  did  actually  lie  outside  the  door 
all  night  and  until  the  following  morning. 

By  the  morning  the  patient  ‘  had  become  so  emaciated 
that  his  form  resembled  that  of  a  toothpick.*  A  crowd 
collected  to  look  at  this  strangely  shaped  human  being, 
and  were  continuing  their  observations  when  the  sheik 
of  the  market  arrived  and  drove  the  idlers  away.  In 
the  meantime  the  hospital  authorities  had  exhibited  no 
interest  in  their  solitary  out-patient.  Possibly  the  house- 
surgeon  may  have  looked  out  of  the  window,  may  have 
muttered  the  word  ‘  drunk,*  and  have  returned  to  his 
breakfast.  Now  the  sheik  had  an  opinion  of  the  hospital 
of  his  native  town  which  was  even  lower  than  that  of 
the  camel- driver,  for  he  said :  ‘  I  will  gain  Paradise  by 
means  of  this  poor  person  ;  for  if  they  take  him  into 
the  hospital  they  will  kill  him  in  one  day.*  It  is  only 
fair  to  the  hospital  to  say  that  the  staff  had  displayed 
no  anxiety  to  admit  the  sufferer  into  what  the  sheik 
regarded  as  a  lethal  chamber.  On  the  other  hand  the 
sheik*s  views  as  to  the  value  of  the  charity  saved  the 
life  of  Ghanim  the  son  of  Eiyoob,  for  the  sheik  took  him 
into  his  own  home  and  told  his  wife  to  look  after  him. 
This  excellent  and  most  practical  woman  ‘  tucked  up 
her  sleeves  and,  having  heated  some  water,  washed 


230 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


his  hands  and  feet  and  body  and  clothed  him  in  a 
vest  of  one  of  her  female  slaves/  The  clothing  pro¬ 
vided  for  the  sick  man  appears  to  have  been  a  little 
scanty,  but  in  spite  of  all  things  he  made  an  excellent 
recovery. 


XXVIII 

THE  BAZAARS 

The  bazaars  or  shopping  quarters  of  Damascus  are  of 
infinite  variety  and  of  manifold  degree.  There  is  the 
Bond  Street  of  the  city  as  well  as  the  Houndsditch  and 
the  Lambeth  Marsh.  The  bazaars  are  not  made  up  of 
a  mere  medley  of  shops,  but  each  is  constituted  by 
a  collection  of  shops  of  a  particular  kind.  It  is  as  if 
Oxford  Street  in  London  were  devoted  solely  to  the  sale 
of  boots,  Regent  Street  to  saddlery,  Holborn  to  hats, 
and  the  Strand  to  drugs  and  spices. 

The  bazaars  in  the  city  are,  for  the  most  part,  covered- 

in  passages,  ranging  from  lofty  and  wide  tunnels,  on  the 

one  hand,  to  mere  rag-shaded  alleys  on  the  other.  Most 

of  the  bazaars  are  dark.  To  enter  one  from  the  glaring 

street  is  like  passing  from  the  open  road  into  a  wood. 

The  larger  bazaars,  especially  those  in  the  construction 

of  which  much  timber  is  used,  suggest  the  hold  of  a 

great  ship,  where  goods  have  been  stored  along  both  the 

port  and  the  starboard  sides,  and  where  the  deck  above 

is  arched  instead  of  flat.  Certain  are  roofed  over  by  a 

long  line  of  stone  and  plaster  domes  which  thus  form  a 

ceiling  of  inverted  cups.  In  the  meaner  kind  the  sky 

231 


232 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


is  shut  out  by  casual  boards  and  tattered  canvas  or  by 
fragments  of  mats,  while  in  some  the  wooden  roof  is  in 
such  disrepair  that  it  provides  little  more  cover  than 
a  fishing-net. 

There  is  a  curious  atmosphere  in  the  bazaar,  as  if  the 
air  were  tinged  with  brown.  The  sound  of  traffic  also 
is  strangely  dulled,  owing  to  the  facts  that  the  floor  is  of 
trodden  earth,  that  many  among  the  crowd  are  bare¬ 
footed,  while  the  soft  leather  slipper  is  a  thing  of  silence 
compared  with  the  nailed  boot  on  a  pavement.  The 
bazaar  will  be  crowded  from  side  to  side  and  from  end 
to  end.  Infinite  sounds  from  human  throats  will  fill  it, 
as  the  hum  of  the  sea  fills  a  cavern,  but  beyond  this 
is  only  a  faint  rustle — as  of  wind  among  rushes — the 
scuffle  of  human  feet. 

To  form  a  conception  of  one  of  the  larger  bazaars  let 
the  Londoner  imagine  the  Burlington  Arcade  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  long  and  three  times  its  present  height  and 
width.  Let  it  be  as  dimly  lit  as  the  nave  of  a  City  church 
in  November,  let  the  road  be  of  foot-polished  earth,  and 
on  either  side  imagine  a  row  of  coachhouses  thrown 
open  and  stuffed  with  goods  from  floor  to  roof,  with, 
above  these  recesses,  the  windows  of  a  Bayswater  mews 
or  the  iron  fanlight  of  a  booking-office.  Conceive  the 
arcade  crammed  with  the  company  of  an  opera,  based 
upon  the  '  Arabian  Nights,’  and  that,  stroUing  among  the 
crowd,  are  a  few  camels  and  donkeys  with  an  occasional 
Arab  sheik  on  a  horse.  It  would  be  strange  to  see  in 
the  Burlington  Arcade  a  horseman  buying  a  necktie  at 
a  shop  door  without  dismounting,  but  the  spectacle  is 
common  in  Damascus.  The  light  in  the  bazaar  is  derived 


THE  BAZAARS 


233 


largely  from  flaws  in  the  roof  and  from  side  alleys 
or  cross  streets,  or  possibly  from  dormer  windows  in 
the  domes.  It  provides  an  appropriate  atmosphere  of 
mystery  to  the  place.  I  am  loath  to  add  that  some  of 
the  shops — not  the  shops  which  belong  to  the  time  of 
the  Caliph  Haroon  Er-Rasheed — are  lit  with  electric 
light.  The  prevailing  colour  of  the  arcade  or  aisle  of 
the  bazaar,  as  well  as  of  the  crowd  that  fills  it,  is  brown 
— brown  dotted  with  red  and  white,  the  red  being  the 
tarboush,  and  the  white  the  turban.  As  for  the  shops, 
their  colours  are  so  infinite  that  they  produce  the  effect 
of  an  exceedingly  bright  herbaceous  border  arranged 
in  the  shadow  of  a  waU. 

Of  the  individual  bazaars  one  of  the  cheeriest  is  that 
occupied  by  the  leather  sellers,  for  here  are  saddles  of 
great  magnificence,  trappings  for  mules,  and  head  orna¬ 
ments  for  camels,  blazing  with  every  colour  under  the 
sun  and  alive  with  hanging  balls  and  with  bright  things 
that  jingle.  There  are,  moreover,  saddle-cloths  of  high 
degree,  coloured  girths  and  saddle-bags,  brilliant  haver¬ 
sacks,  and  leather  bottles  as  reckless  in  tint  as  a  child's 
toy-box.  This  bazaar  is  one  of  the  most  ancient  as  well 
as  one  most  typical  of  the  East.  An  English  fox-hunter 
may  wear  a  scarlet  coat,  but  it  would  be  unseemly  if  he 
went  to  the  meet  mounted  on  a  yellow  and  blue  saddle 
secured  by  girths  of  green  and  purple,  his  own  back 
being  hidden  by  a  haversack  embroidered  with  silver 
thread,  while  his  horse  was  dripping  on  all  sides  with 
balls  of  wool,  suspended  on  strings,  or  with  tassels  in 
black  and  pink,  and  at  the  same  time  was  sparkling  like 
a  Christmas-tree. 


234 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


Near  by  is  the  coppersmiths'  quarter,  made  noisy 
enough  by  the  clatter  of  fifty  hammers,  but  very  inter¬ 
esting  as  displaying  a  craft  which  has  altered  but  little 
since  the  days  of  that  Alexander  for  whom  St.  Paul  had 
so  strong  a  dislike  that  ‘  he  delivered  him  unto  Satan.' 
Here  and  in  the  smiths'  bazaar  is  to  be  seen  a  primeval 
bellows  made  of  a  cowskin,  with  the  hair  still  on  it,  the 
same  being  shaped  like  a  carpet  bag.  It  is  worked  by  a 
listless  boy  who  has  only  to  carry  out  the  simple  process 
of  opening  the  bag  and  then  shutting  it.  Here  or  here¬ 
about  may  be  seen  the  first  lathe  of  the  first  lathe-maker 
— the  spindle  of  which  is  rotated  by  means  of  the  string 
of  a  bow — as  well  as  a  locksmith  at  work  on  a  lock  which 
only  the  rogues  of  the  '  Thousand  and  One  Nights '  would 
understand.  The  silk  bazaar  is  another  brilliant  quarter 
of  Damascus.  Here  is  silk  of  every  tint  and  texture, 
adapted  to  every  purpose — from  the  beautiful  keffiyeh  or 
Arab  head-cover,  to  a  Battersea  table-cover  that  bursts 
upon  the  eye  with  the  effect  of  an  explosion.  Scarves 
and  turban  bands  hang  from  the  shop  roof  like  rainbow- 
coloured  stalactites  or  like  the  fibres  of  some  wonderful 
banyan  tree  whose  roots  dip  into  a  dyer's  vat. 

The  cotton  bazaar  is  a  little  disappointing,  for 
although  damask  derived  its  name  in  the  past  from 
Damascus  it  is  probable  that  the  damask  to  be  now  seen 
in  the  city  is  derived  from  Manchester.  This  bazaar, 
which  appears  to  be  the  Galeries  Lafayette  of  Damascus, 
is  ever  filled  with  native  women,  waddling  about  con¬ 
fusedly  like  ants  in  a  disturbed  ant-heap.  They  serve 
to  show  that  the  great  passion  of  women,  the  passion 
for  shopping,  is  as  intense  in  the  unregenerate  female 


THE  BAZAARS 


235 


as  it  is  in  the  most  advanced.  Some  women  were  pecking 
eagerly  about  among  the  bales  like  fowls  in  a  newly 
discovered  pasture ;  others  turned  the  cottons  over 
hurriedly  as  if  they  were  hunting  for  a  mouse.  In  the 
matter  of  bargaining  the  Moslem  lady  is  hampered  by 
her  veil,  the  veil  both  muffling  the  shrillness  of  her 
speech  and  at  the  same  time  checking  the  volume  of  it. 
I  imagined  that  one  woman,  who  was  shaking  like  a 
cinematograph  figure  and  was  screaming  the  while,  must 
have  been  stabbed  by  the  shop-walker,  but  the  dragoman 
assured  me  that  she  was  simply  declining  to  pay  what 
was  the  equivalent  to  the  final  halfpenny  in  the  account 
and  was  calling  somewhat  freely  upon  Allah  ('  whose 
name  be  exalted ')  in  connection  with  this  righteous 
matter  of  discount. 

The  second-hand  clothes  bazaar  is  not  pleasant. 
There  are  certain  features  about  discarded  clothing  in 
the  East — where  insect  life  is  luxuriant  and  where 
cholera  is  common — which  it  is  not  well  to  linger  over. 
In  each  of  these  shops  the  garments  dangling  from  the 
ceiling  or  wall  look  like  the  shrunken  bodies  of  former 
possessors,  so  that  each  stall  is  a  species  of  Blue  Beard's 
chamber  lacking  the  blood  and  the  heads.  Less  easily 
identified  articles  of  clothing  hang  down  like  the  shrivelled 
leaves  of  some  dreadful  kind  of  weeping  willow.  It  is 
said  that  each  bazaar  has  its  distinctive  odour.  This 
is  true.  Possibly  a  red  deer  could  scent  the  old  clothes 
bazaar  in  Damascus  before  the  city  was  in  sight. 

Ten  shops  entirely  full  of  scarlet  slippers  afford  a 
striking  object,  while  the  fitting  on  of  slippers  in  the  open 
roadway,  where  the  customer  has  the  advantage  of  the 


236  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


criticism  of  the  passer-by,  is  also  notable.  Scarlet  is 
not  the  only  colour  in  the  shoe  bazaar.  Soft  yellow 
slippers  are  worn,  as  are  also  pointed  shoes  in  any  primary 
tint.  There  are  clogs,  moreover,  made  of  wood  and 
ornamented  with  little  inlaid  diamonds  and  squares 
of  mother-of-pearl  or  of  bone.  A  man  will  cut  a  pattern 
in  a  clog  with  his  hands  while  he  fixes  the  clog  with  his 
foot.  A  clog  maker  who  had  lost  his  great  toe  would 
apparently  have  to  abandon  his  trade. 

Those  who  love  a  blaze  of  yellow,  a  flood  of  primrose 
yellow,  of  maize  yellow,  or  the  yellow  of  a  sand  beach 
in  the  sun,  should  visit  the  basket  bazaar,  where  their 
eyes  will  be  feasted.  The  tobacco  shops,  which  are  so 
bright  in  England,  are  the  dullest  of  any  in  the  East. 
The  tobacco  is  displayed  in  sacks,  has  the  colour  of  dried 
peat,  and  the  general  aspect  of  fodder  for  animals.  To 
choose  tobacco  from  a  series  of  coarse  bags  standing  on 
the  floor  of  a  poor  sort  of  hay  store  is  inconsistent  with 
the  idea  of  purchasing  a  luxury. 

The  food  shops  in  Damascus  are  remarkable,  being 
indeed  very  unlike  any  corresponding  establishments  in 
the  West ;  yet  human  food,  one  would  imagine,  would 
differ  less  than  human  clothing  among  civilised  people. 
There  are  innumerable  cafes  in  Damascus,  but  they  do 
not  concern  themselves  with  solid  food.  They  are 
after-dinner  resorts,  places  for  coffee  and  tobacco,  for 
conversation  or  general  idling — corresponding,  in  fact,  to 
the  smoking-room  of  an  English  club.  There  are  restau¬ 
rants  too,  dealing  mysteriously  with  meat  and  broth, 
but  so  full  of  steam  as  to  make  all  details  obscure  even 
to  the  clearing  up  of  the  point  as  to  whether  the  guests 


THE  BAZAARS 


237 


themselves  are  not  undergoing  some  process  of  stewing 
by  steam.  There  is  no  doubt,  however,  that  in  the  more 
elegant  of  these  eating-houses  it  would  be  possible  to 
order  such  a  repast  as  the  Lady  Zubeydeh  prepared  for 
the  sultan's  steward,  to  wit '  a  basin  of  zirbajeh  sweetened 
with  sugar,  perfumed  with  rose-water,  and  containing 
different  kinds  of  fricandoed  fowls  and  a  variety  of  other 
ingredients,  such  as  astonished  the  mind.' 

The  average  Damascene  is  a  real  ‘  man  of  the  street.' 
He  appears  to  indulge  in  an  ambulatory  meal,  picking 
up  his  food  as  he  goes,  eating  his  meat  in  one  bazaar, 
his  sweets  in  a  second,  his  dessert  in  a  third,  while  he 
finally  squats  on  the  ground  to  take  his  coffee  from  an 
itinerant  coffee  vendor.  If  a  man  were  to  deposit  himself 
anywhere  by  the  street  side  it  is  probable  that  all  the 
food  he  wanted  would  pass  before  him  in  the  course  of 
the  day,  although  not  necessarily  in  the  order  he  would 
wish.  If  a  merchant,  sitting  cross-legged  in  his  shop, 
desires  to  smoke  he  beckons  to  him  the  first  pipe  vendor 
who  comes  in  sight.  This  man  brings  him  a  nargilch, 
or  other  kind  of  pipe,  fills  it,  lights  it  with  a  hot  coal, 
and  leaves  the  merchant  to  suck  at  it.  In  due  course 
he  returns  for  the  pipe,  receives  his  pay,  and  hands  the 
mouthpiece  on  to  the  next  customer.  This  common 
street  pipe  is  no  more  agreeable  to  modern  ideas  than 
would  be  a  general  toothbrush,  while  to  conduct  smoking 
upon  the  principles  of  a  book-lending  library  is  a  process 
that  will  remain  peculiar  to  the  East. 

In  Damascus  the  place  of  the  ^  bar  '  or  refreshment- 
room  counter  is  taken  by  itinerant  drink  sellers.  They 
are  for  the  most  part  uninviting-looking  folk,  being 


238  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


unpleasantly  damp.  They  carry  plain  water  or  liquorice 
water  in  goatskins,  to  drink  from  which  would  be,  to 
the  fastidious,  akin  to  drinking  from  an  ancient  leather 
boot.  Lemonade  or  raisin  water,  the  drink  of  the 
smarter  set,  is  carried  in  a  two-handled  jar  with  a  narrow 
neck  by  a  man  who,  as  he  walks,  rattles  the  brazen  cups 
from  which  all  his  customers  refresh  themselves.  I 
imagine  that  to  wipe  this  cup — a  proceeding  never  dreamt 
of — would  be  equivalent  to  a  reflection  on  the  whole¬ 
someness  of  the  person  who  last  made  use  of  it.  Yet 
Damascus  seems  to  fare  very  well  without  these  sanitary 
refinements. 

From  wandering  merchants  it  is  possible  to  buy 
nearly  every  article  of  food  that  can  be  conceived  of, 
from  hot  roast  meat  to  walnuts.  Out  of  a  couple  of  open 
sacks,  slung  on  the  back  of  a  donkey,  you  can  obtain 
dates  or  dried  apricots,  as  well  as  less  distinctive  dried 
objects  that  may  once  have  been  fruits.  From  wooden 
tubs,  carried  also  by  a  donkey,  it  is  possible  to  purchase 
such  foreboding  items  of  food  as  cucumbers  and  turnips 
pickled  in  vinegar.  The  passer-by,  moreover,  may  pick 
from  a  pannier  a  handful  of  pistachio  nuts,  or  pluck  from 
one  of  many  greasy  skewers  a  lump  of  meat  that  would 
make  many  a  one  turn  vegetarian. 

Of  all  these  food  hawkers — none  of  whom,  it  may 
be  said,  are  for  a  moment  silent — the  vendor  of  hot  roast 
meat  is  the  most  remarkable.  In  an  iron  trough,  held 
vertically,  is  a  fire  for  cooking.  The  trough  is  divided 
by  what  may  be  called  two  floors  into  three  stories,  in 
each  of  which  is  a  fire.  In  front  of  this  pillar  of  fire  is 
a  vertical  iron  spit  upon  which  are  impaled  circular  slices 


THE  BAZAARS 


239 


of  lean  mutton,  alternating  with  slabs  of  fat  derived, 
according  to  the  dragoman,  from  the  sheep's  tail.  The 
chef — who  is  unclean — rotates  this  spit  before  the 
upright  fire  by  turning  a  handle,  like  that  of  a  barrel 
organ,  fixed  to  the  lower  end  of  the  meat  column.  As 
soon  as  the  surface  of  the  roll  of  meat  is  sufficiently 
cooked  he  cuts  slices  from  the  same  and  hands  them  to 
the  diner.  The  rotating  roll  of  frizzling  mutton  is  by 
this  means  gradually  reduced  in  girth  until  the  spit  alone 
is  left.  The  gourmet  can  have  his  meat  cut  off  from  that 
part  of  the  cylinder  which  is  opposite  to  the  ground  floor 
fire  or  from  those  parts  which  are  cooked  on  the  first  or 
second  floors. 

The  bread,  of  course,  is  obtained  at  the  bakers. 
It  takes  the  form  of  pancake-shaped  slabs  which  resemble 
pieces  of  thick  chamois  leather — a  little  burnt  in  places — 
rather  than  bread.  The  purchaser  will  buy  half  a  dozen 
of  these  slabs,  which  he  will  roll  up,  as  if  he  were  rolling 
up  six  sheets  of  thick  yellow  paper,  and  will  deposit  them 
in  his  pocket.  The  first  time  I  saw  bread  thus  disposed 
of,  projecting  from  a  man's  pocket,  I  mistook  it  for  an 
unfamiliar  form  of  Panama  hat  rolled  up.  It  is  well  to 
note  that  this  bread,  when  eaten,  is  not  cut  but  broken, 
so  that,  indeed,  about  the  time  of  noon  the  ‘  breaking 
of  bread  '  is  very  general  throughout  the  bazaar.  There 
is  another  kind  of  bread  which  is  made  in  the  form  of 
rings.  A  number  of  these  quoits  of  crust,  strung  on  a 
cord  so  as  to  form  a  kind  of  pastry  necklace,  will  be  seen 
hanging  in  festoons  from  the  roofs  of  bakers'  shops  of 
the  better  type. 

The  variety  of  cakes  purveyed  in  the  city  is  endless, 


240 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


whether  regarded  from  the  point  of  view  of  size,  shape, 
composition,  or  colour.  Some  are  sold  hot,  some  are  cold. 
Some  are  mere  lumps  of  undecided  dough,  while  others 
are  finished  discs  the  size  of  the  seat  of  a  chair.  The 
majority  are  so  tempting  in  appearance  that  even  bakers 
from  the  Land  o'  Cakes  would  find  much  to  learn  in 
Damascus.  Very  popular  in  the  streets  is  a  thin  wheaten 
cake,  spread  with  butter  and  grape  syrup  and  sprinkled 
with  sesame  seeds.  This  article  takes  the  place  of  the 
stolid,  uncompromising  bun  of  the  English  refreshment- 
rooms — which  bun  seems  to  be  impervious  to  change  and 
to  be  an  emblem  of  that  melancholy  which  is  assumed  to 
be  a  feature  of  the  British  mind. 

The  confectioners'  shops  are  among  the  most  fascin¬ 
ating  in  Damascus.  They  are  scrupulously  clean  and 
very  daintily  arranged.  There  are  trays  full  of  enticing 
confections  of  every  shape  and  colour,  sweets  in  balls, 
in  strings  or  in  rocky  masses,  sweets  like  cubes  of  green 
putty,  sweets  like  masses  of  clear  crystal,  lumps  of  yeUow 
jelly  in  dishes,  blue  basins  full  of  white  curds,  little 
saucers  of  blancmange  sprinkled  with  sliced  cocoanut, 
pistachio  nuts  and  almonds,  open  tarts,  and  finally 
humble  nodules  of  batter  frying  in  oil.  From  the  great 
number  of  these  shops  it  is  evident  that  the  Damascene 
has  stiU  as  intemperate  a  love  of  sweet  things  as  he 
had  in  the  days  of  the  ‘  Thousand  and  One  Nights.'  One 
of  these  dainty  shops  might  well  be  the  very  one  where 
Ajeeb  the  son  of  Hasan  Bedr-ed-Deen,  in  company  with 
his  servant,  ate  a  conserve  of  pomegranate  grains  and 
almonds  sweetened  with  sugar,  and  drank  rose-water 
sherbet  infused  with  musk  '  until  their  stomachs  were 


THE  BAZAARS 


241 


full/  It  must  have  been  no  mean  feast,  for  Ajeeb  was 
very  hearty,  while  the  servant  wielded  a  whip  ‘  that  could 
strike  down  a  camel/ 

The  ‘  department '  for  drugs,  spices,  and  perfumery 
is  very  enchanting,  for  here  can  be  inhaled  the  undoubted 
and  only  reputable  '  perfumes  of  Arabia/  Here  one 
can  obtain,  as  in  the  days  of  the  Happy  King,  ‘  ten  kinds 
of  scented  waters,  rose-water,  orange-flower  water,  and 
willow-flower  water,  together  with  sugar  and  a  sprinkling 
bottle  of  rose-water  infused  with  musk  and  frankincense, 
and  aloes-wood,  and  ambergris,  and  musk  and  wax 
candles/  Owing  to  the  fact  that  charms  have  become 
discredited  there  may  be  some  difficulty  in  obtaining, 
at  the  same  time,  *  a  round  piece  of  benj  of  such  potency 
that  if  an  elephant  smelt  it  he  would  sleep  from  one 
night  to  another/ 

The  barbers’  shops  present  another  interesting  feature 
in  the  bazaar.  The  stalls  are  hung  with  mirrors,  accord¬ 
ing  to  ancient  custom,  while  the  barbers  themselves  are 
busy,  apparently  all  day  long,  shaving  men’s  heads. 
Barbers  and  hair-cutters  in  all  parts  of  the  world  are 
very  apt  to  be  garrulous,  and  I  was  interested  to  note 
that  these  minor  artists  of  Damascus  never  ceased  from 
chattering,  whether  they  were  at  work  or  at  rest.  This 
is  a  very  old  grievance  against  the  fraternity — as  is 
made  painfully  evident  in  the  story  told  by  the  tailor  of 
Bagdad.  He  speaks  of  a  young  man  who  took  infinite 
pains  to  find  a  barber  who  was  competent  and  was  at 
the  same  time  ‘  a  man  of  sense,  little  inclined  to  imperti¬ 
nence,  that  he  may  not  make  the  head  ache  by  his 
chattering.’  The  barber  that  this  young  man  did  finally 


242  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

obtain  so  overwhelmed  him  with  his  speech  that  the 
youth  '  felt  as  if  his  gall  bladder  would  burst/  This 
distressing  accident  happily  did  not  occur,  but  the  barber 
talked  with  such  deadly  persistence  that  his  flow  of 
speech  led  in  the  end  to  the  breaking  of  the  leg  of  the 
tailor's  friend,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  shaving  of 
his  head  was  never  completed. 

A  stirring  but  noisy  feature  in  certain  bazaars  is  the 
auction,  which  appears  to  spring  up  at  any  moment  with 
the  unexpectedness  of  a  street  row.  The  auctioneer, 
in  the  pursuit  of  the  business,  not  only  talks  incessantly 
but  maintains  a  state  of  perpetual  movement,  for  he 
runs  about  from  shop  to  shop  and  from  person  to  person 
with  the  article  for  sale  until  a  bid  is  offered  that  he 
can  accept.  His  running  comments  have  probably 
altered  but  little  since  the  days  of  the  '  Arabian  Nights,' 
where  the  following  report  of  his  breathless  utterance  is 
to  be  found  :  ‘  0  merchants  !  O  possessors  of  wealth  ! 
Everything  that  is  round  is  not  a  nut ;  nor  is  everything 
long,  a  banana  ;  nor  is  everything  that  is  red,  meat ; 
nor  is  everything  that  is  ruddy,  wine  ;  nor  is  everything 
tawny,  a  date  !  O  merchants  !  this  precious  article, 
whose  value  no  money  can  equal,  with  what  sum  will 
ye  open  the  bidding  for  it  ?  ' 

After  many  days  of  wandering  through  the  labyrinth 
of  shops  there  is  left  on  the  mind  a  sense  of  amazement 
at  the  number  of  things  a  man  wants  or  thinks  that  he 
wants. 


XXIX 

THE  CROWD 

There  is  a  belief,  based  upon  evidence  gathered  by 
philologists,  that  the  nations  of  Europe  and  certain  of 
the  peoples  of  Asia  had  their  origin  from  a  common 
stock,  known  as  the  Aryan  race.  It  is  supposed  that 
the  home  of  these  primitive  Aryans  was  somewhere 
about  the  southern  steppes  of  Russia,  and  that  in  the 
process  of  time  the  family  broke  up  and  the  members 
of  it  wandered  away  in  various  directions.  Those  who 
went  towards  the  east  founded  the  Persian  nation  and 
peopled  the  northern  parts  of  India.  Those  who  travelled 
to  the  north-west  became  known,  in  the  fulness  of  days, 
as  Slavs  and  Teutons,  while  from  these  two  branches 
sprang  the  Russian  and  the  Pole,  as  well  as  the  Scan¬ 
dinavian  and  the  Anglo-Saxon.  Some  wended  their 
way  to  Greece  and  made  the  name  of  the  Greek  ever 
memorable^  while  the  ancestors  of  the  Celts  and  the 
Romans,  following  the  course  of  the  Danube,  penetrated 
into  Italy,  France,  and  Spain. 

Very  many  centuries  have  passed  away  since  this 

astounding  family  scattered.  It  is  not  to  be  assumed  that 

they  ‘  moved  ’  in  a  day,  nor  has  it  ever  been  suggested 

243 


244 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


that  any  strong  family  feeling  was  maintained  among  the 
parted  relatives,  or  that  the  remote  descendants  of  the 
present  hour  feel  drawn  towards  the  southern  steppes 
of  Russia  as  towards  an  ancient  home.  In  spite  of  such 
indifference  the  whole  family  meets  unconsciously  once 
a  year,  the  meeting-place  being  the  bazaar  in  Damascus, 
and  the  time  that  of  the  Mecca  pilgrimage.  It  was  at 
this  period  that  we  chanced  to  be  in  the  city,  and  could 
claim  to  take  part  in  the  gathering  as  representatives  of 
one  branch  of  the  family.  The  gathering,  be  it  noted,  is 
an  assembling  together  of  representatives  of  the  entire 
Aryan  or  Indo-European  stock,  and  it  is  doubtful  if  in 
any  other  spot  a  meeting  so  comprehensive  can  be  found. 

There  are  Persians  to  be  seen  in  the  crowd,  men  for 
the  most  part  distinguished  by  their  gorgeous  silks,  as 
weU  as  pilgrims  from  the  northern  provinces  of  India  who 
are  on  their  way  back  from  Mecca.  These  frontier  folk 
constitute  probably  the  finest  specimens  of  the  original 
race,  being  tall  and  powerful  men,  many  of  whom  are 
conspicuous  in  quilted  coats  and  white  turbans  or 
conical  hats  made  of  fur.  The  Slavs  are  well  represented 
by  the  immense  body  of  Moslem  pilgrims  from  various 
parts  of  Russia,  as  well  as  by  casual  Bulgarians,  Illyrians, 
and  Poles.  The  Teuton  is  portrayed  by  the  German  and 
the  British  man  of  business,  while  I  have  no  doubt  that 
a  little  search  in  Damascus  would  discover  a  Norwegian, 
a  Swede,  or  a  Dane.  The  Greeks,  of  course,  are  very 
prominent.  There  is,  indeed,  a  Greek  bazaar  in  Damascus 
where  they  reign  supreme.  In  the  matter  of  dress  they 
adopt  a  simple  compromise  in  the  form  of  the  tweed  suit 
of  the  West  and  the  tarboush  of  the  East.  A  less  happy 


THE  CROWD 


245 


blending  of  these  two  worlds  is  afforded  by  the  man  who 
wears  a  shop-walker's  frock  coat  and  a  white  turban. 
He,  however,  is  not  a  Greek,  and  may  himself  be  in 
doubt  as  to  his  nationality.  The  descendants  of  the 
Roman  and  of  the  man  of  Gaul  will  be  illustrated  by 
the  French  railway  engineer,  the  Spanish  trader,  and 
the  Italian  seaman  from  the  port  of  Beyrout. 

It  is  as  a  spectacle,  however,  rather  than  as  an 
assembly  of  men,  that  the  crowd  in  the  bazaar  is  of 
interest.  It  is  a  substantial  crowd,  for  it  fills  the  roads 
and  alleys  to  the  walls.  It  is  a  cheerful  crowd,  for 
although  many  go  about  their  business  with  gravity, 
there  are  others  who  loiter  along,  idle,  indifferent  to  time, 
fool-happy,  and  eager  to  be  amused.  In  some  narrow 
places  in  the  bazaars,  at  the  height  of  the  day,  the  passage 
is  wellnigh  blocked,  so  that  men  must  needs  push  and 
gasp  their  way  through  the  strait,  as  a  torrent  through 
a  gorge,  while  over  the  hubbub  hangs  a  haze  of  sweat, 
noise,  and  dust.  The  place  is  as  full  of  strange  voices 
as  a  madman's  cell,  while  above  the  general  hum  will 
rise,  from  time  to  time,  a  ripple  of  laughter,  the  yell  of 
some  mischievous  boy,  the  call  of  the  donkey  driver,  and 
the  cry  of  the  hawker  of  odds  and  ends. 

The  crowd  is  composed  almost  entirely  of  men,  and, 
for  the  most  part,  of  men  wearing  turbans  and  long 
robes.  These  robes,  when  worn  by  Dives,  are  of  find 
cloth,  very  stately  and  dignified,  but  when  covering  the 
lean  loins  of  Lazarus  they  are  of  a  mean  stuff  that  once 
was  white  but  has  now  taken  upon  itself  the  hue  of  the 
earth.  These  men  in  gowns,  of  whatever  degree,  recall  the 
garb  and  bearing  of  medieval  figures,  of  the  kind  found 


246  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

in  ancient  religious  paintings,  where  they  are  seen  kneel¬ 
ing  before  thrones,  or  carrying  offerings,  or  in  procession 

• 

on  a  journey.  There  are  very  many  red  tarboushes 
among  the  heads  of  the  people,  with,  now  and  then,  the 
fur  cap  of  the  J ew.  J ews  are  not  so  common  in  Damascus 
as  they  are  in  Jerusalem.  They  are  as  little  contented- 
looking  as  an  oriental  Jew  will  ever  allow  himself  to 
appear.  Ringlets  and  side  locks  are  ‘  not  worn,'  but 
the  dressing-gown  is  clung  to  as  well  as  the  gaberdine 
and  the  flapping  felt  hat. 

A  proportion  of  the  tarboush  and  turban  wearers 
are  quite  florid  in  their  dress,  for  in  the  place  of  the 
long  robe  may  be  found  a  jade-green  jacket,  a  pink 
scarf  for  the  waist,  lemon-yellow  headgear,  and  black, 
bag-like  trousers.  A  white  cloth  round  the  tarboush,  if 
it  be  no  more  than  a  shred  of  cotton,  is  considered  chiCy 
and  with  such  a  head-dress  it  would  be  appropriate  to 
wear  a  fawn-tinted  mantle  over  a  black  coat,  or  a  long 
snuff-coloured  cloak  with  sleeves  as  ample  as  those  of 
a  Master  of  Art's  gown.  Many  of  the  men  in  the 
bazaar  have  their  heads  merely  tied  up  or  bandaged 
up  with  cotton  cloth.  They  might  have  all  come  from 
some  popular  casualty  ward,  were  it  not  for  the  fact 
that  the  surgical-like  head-dressing  varies  from  mauve 
to  ruby,  from  cherry-red  to  pink,  from  green  to  brown 
or  blue.  A  purple  skull-cap  edged  with  fur,  worn  with 
a  grey  coat  over  a  lilac  skirt,  is  much  in  vogue  with 
those  to  whom  dress  is  a  serious  thing. 

Some  of  the  less  fortunate  frequenters  of  the  bazaar 
are  mere  bundles  of  rags,  one  rag  of  a  cloak  or  coat  having 
been  placed  over  another  such  garment.  A  man  of  this 


THE  CROWD 


247 


type,  if  cut  in  two,  would  look  like  a  section  of  a  many- 
coloured  onion.  His  life  and  times  can  be  read  to  a 
certain  depth  by  the  strata  of  his  clothing,  just  as 
geological  history  can  be  read  by  stratified  deposits. 
The  outer  rag  is  possibly  grey  and  no  doubt  belongs 
to  the  present  period.  The  blue  rag  beneath  may  go 
back  five  years ;  the  brown-black  shred,  visible  through 
the  holes  in  the  superjacent  layers,  may  have  been 
added  to  the  collection  twenty  years  ago,  while  possibly 
the  filaments  of  red  that  appear  to  be  in  contact  with 
the  skin  belong  to  the  time  of  a  joyous  youth. 

What  may  be  the  nationality  of  all  these  folk,  and  in 
what  pursuits  they  are  engaged,  none  but  a  superhuman 
dragoman  could  tell.  They  belong  to  the  period  of  the 
‘  Arabian  Nights '  as  well  as  of  to-day,  for  I  have  no  doubt 
that  among  them  are  ‘  Zeytoon  the  bath  keeper,  and 
Saleea  the  wheat  seller,  and  Owkal  the  bean  seller,  and 
Akresheh  the  grocer,  and  Homeya  the  dustman,  and 
Akarish  the  milk  seller.'  The  man  I  was  most  anxious 
to  meet  was  the  one-eyed  calender,  that  particular 
one  who,  when  cutting  wood,  found  a  trap-door  at  the 
foot  of  a  tree,  which  same  led  to  a  staircase  and  finally 
to  a  ‘  lady  like  a  pearl  of  high  price.'  I  came  upon  him 
after  many  days.  There  was  no  doubt  as  to  his  identity. 
It  was  his  left  eye  that  was  missing,  as  the  story  says. 
He  wore  a  conical  grey  hat  with  a  rag  round  it,  a  loose 
pink  jacket,  and  a  blue  skirt.  In  his  hand  he  carried  a 
long  staff.  It  was  quite  evident  that  he  had  passed 
through  boisterous  times,  for  it  was  this  calender  who  had 
the  awful  experience  with  the  Efreet,  Jarjarees  the  son 
of  Rejmoos.  I  looked  in  vain  for  the  son  of  the  vizier 


248  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


El-Fadl.  It  may  be  remembered  that  he  was  a  youth 
very  bountifully  endowed  by  nature,  for  he  was  ^  like 
the  shining  fuU  moon,  with  brilliant  countenance  and  red 
cheek  marked  with  a  mole  like  a  globule  of  ambergris 
and  with  grey  down/ 

Wandering  through  the  town  are  many  Bedouins  from 
the  desert.  Especially  are  they  to  be  met  with  in  certain 
quarters,  in  windy  squares,  and  about  the  great  caravan¬ 
serai.  They  are  supremely  interesting,  tawny  men,  sun¬ 
burnt  and  weather-stained.  Many  have  very  wrinkled 
brows  as  if  from  long  looking  at  a  sand  trail  blazing  in  the 
sun.  They  wear  a  grey  head-cloth  kept  in  place  by  a 
rope  of  black  goat's  hair  twisted  round  the  skuU,  and  are 
enveloped  in  a  wide,  shapeless  cloak  fashioned  of  brown 
and  cream-coloured  cloth  in  stripes,  each  stripe  being  a 
foot  wide.  The  design  is  a  little  loud  for  city  wear,  but 
it  must  be  useful  in  the  waste  of  the  desert,  since  the 
cloak  could  be  seen  from  afar  as  readily  as  a  striped  buoy 
in  a  channel. 

There  were  numerous  Turkish  soldiers  in  Damascus, 
who  had  been  disbanded  there  after  a  period  of  active 
service,  and  who  were  supposed  to  be  making  their 
way  home.  They  were  about  the  least  military-looking 
people  I  have  in  recollection.  Strong  and  gallant  men, 
no  doubt,  but  slovenly  and  very  gross,  they  drifted  about 
in  the  bazaar  like  khaki  bundles  in  a  tideway.  Their 
heads  were  wrapped  up  in  sulphur-coloured  towels. 
They  wore  their  socks  outside  their  trousers,  and 
their  boots,  which  had  never  been  either  laced  or 
blacked,  were  woefully  down  at  heel.  They  were  slow- 
moving,  tortoise-like  men,  as  vacant  in  expression  as  a 


THE  CROWD 


249 


person  under  chloroform.  Some  officers  we  saw  on  the 
parade  ground  of  the  city,  were,  on  the  other  hand, 
exceedingly  smart  and  fierce,  although  their  ferocity  was 
a  little  softened  by  the  fact  that  many  carried  dainty 
umbrellas,  while  others  wore  galoshes  over  boots  which 
no  doubt  were  accustomed  to  wade  through  blood. 

In  addition  to  the  ordinary  Damascene  crowd  are 
the  numerous  strangers  within  the  gates,  the  passers-by, 
the  pilgrims  returning  from  Mecca,  and  the  human 
flotsam  and  jetsam  that  have  drifted  from  the  wide  East 
into  the  backwaters  of  Damascus.  It  is  very  difficult 
for  the  unlearned  to  ascertain  the  nationalities  of  the 
various  migrants,  for  the  normal  dragoman  appears  to 
divide  all  unusual  folk  into  two  classes.  If  the  indefinite 
man  is  of  yellow  complexion  and  wears  boots  he  is  a 
Russian ;  if  he  is  of  brown  complexion  and  does  not 
wear  boots  he  is  an  Indian.  As  this  is  not  a  method  of 
classification  employed  in  the  science  of  ethnology  the 
results  are  imperfect. 

Those  who  stand  at  the  street  corner  would  see  go  by, 
in  the  course  of  the  day,  a  couple  of  Nubians  as  black  as 
coal  and  dressed  in  black  and  white,  followed  by  Moors 
in  white  with  coarse  cowls  over  their  heads.  Next  may 
come  along  sun-tanned,  placid  men  with  features  of  a 
Mongolian  type,  who  wear  Robinson  Crusoe  hats  of  black 
astrakhan,  fur  coats,  with  the  bare  skin  outside,  or  capes 
of  black  goat's  hair,  the  costume  being  completed  by 
cumbrous  boots.  They  are  reputed  to  come  from 
Kurdistan.  There  are  other  Mongolian-featured  folk 
who  wear  immense,  black,  dome-shaped  caps  trimmed 
with  brown  fur,  and  long  grey  coats  with  ample  skirts. 


250  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

These,  I  am  told,  come  from  '  somewhere  north  of 
India  ' — a  vague  address  which  would  include  also  the 
Isle  of  Wight. 

There  are  very  few  women  to  be  met  with  in  the 
streets.  With  rare  exceptions  they  will  be  dressed  in 
black  and  will  be  veiled.  The  younger  of  these  are 
picturesque  enough,  for  they  have  well-shaped  heads  and 
move  with  a  graceful,  languorous  ease.  Of  more  than 
one  it  would  be  fitting  to  say  that  she  had — as  the 
Arabian  teller  of  tales  would  express  it — ‘  a  figure  like 
the  letter  Alif.'  Of  the  beauty  of  these  ladies  it  is  of 
course  impossible  to  speak,  but  one  is  prepared  to  believe 
that,  like  Shahrazad's  heroines,  each  will  have  eyebrows 
like  the  new  moon  of  Ramadan,  a  nose  like  the  edge  of 
a  polished  sword,  cheeks  like  anemones,  and  a  mouth 
like  the  seal  of  Suleyman,  so  that,  considered  generally, 
every  one  of  them  would  be  ‘  a  temptation  to  God's 
servants.'  Occasionally  a  veiled  woman  will  pass  by 
who  is  dressed  wholly  in  green,  or  a  pretty,  white-faced 
Jewess  will  pick  her  way  demurely  through  the  crowd. 
She  will  be  clad  in  black  to  conform  to  the  canons  of 
propriety,  but  will  so  far  exhibit  the  weakness  of  the 
flesh  as  to  indulge  herself  in  pink  stockings  and  a  bodice 
of  cerulean  blue.  Women  of  the  humbler  classes,  coming 
in  from  the  country,  will  be  riding  on  donkeys,  riding 
astride,  be  it  noted,  after  the  fashion  of  Eastern  women 
everywhere,  and  as  no  doubt  the  Virgin  Mary  rode  with 
the  Babe.  The  old  masters  were  apt  to  depict  the  Virgin 
in  her  flight  as  a  pale,  stiff,  self-conscious  Italian  lady, 
mounted  sideways  on  a  donkey  as  if  sitting  on  a  bench. 
Possibly  they  had  never  seen  the  lithe,  olive-skinned 


THE  CROWD 


251 

peasant  woman  astride  of  a  donkey,  or,  if  so,  had  failed 
to  note  the  gracefulness  of  her  pose. 

Over  and  above  the  folk  who  tramp  from  sunrise 
to  sunset  through  the  streets  are  the  men  who  sit  in  the 
shops.  Some  of  these  are  so  still  and  so  silent  that  they 
appear  to  have  been  hypnotised.  Others  are  reading  the 
Koran  or  repeating  their  prayers.  Two  or  three  may  be 
talking  together  with  such  solemnity  and  with  such 
dignified  gesture  that  they  may  be  philosophers  discussing 
the  origin  of  all  things.  A  few  will  be  smoking  in  pro¬ 
found  peace,  while  others  are  adding  up  accounts  with 
such  an  air  of  effort  as  is  displayed  by  a  ploughboy 
doing  sums  on  a  slate.  Now  and  then  an  old  and  lonely 
man,  with  hazy  eyes  and  furrowed  brow,  will  be  seen 
sitting  limply  on  the  ground  with  his  back  to  a  wall,  the 
picture  of  one  who  awaits  the  coming  of  death. 

Very  interesting  folk  also  are  the  letter  writers. 
The  humbler  of  these  squat  at  the  street  corners,  while 
their  more  fortunate  brethren  occupy  little  packing-case- 
like  shops.  The  more  exalted  of  these  shops  are  furnished 
with  a  striped  sofa  and  a  striped  armchair,  while  the  less 
ambitious  have  to  be  content  with  a  couple  of  rush-bottom 
stools.  The  client  is  usually  a  woman  who,  deeply  veiled, 
kneels  or  crouches  by  the  side  of  the  writer.  She  is  so 
very  voluble  that  the  scribe — a  bored  man  in  a  red 
tarboush — has  to  restrain  the  outpouring  of  her  speech. 
He  possibly  explains  that  the  day  is  long  and  that  Arabic 
characters  take  time  to  form.  Moreover,  there  is  much 
delay  when  the  ink  on  the  sheet  has  to  be  dried  with 
sand.  Those  who  cluster  about  the  writers  in  the  road 
are  mostly  Bedouins  or  peasants.  They  have  not  much 


252 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


to  say,  but  speak  with  vigour.  Often  I  think  the  message 
they  would  have  conveyed  is  a  message  of  vituperation, 
if  one  might  judge  from  the  violence  and  heat  with 
which  the  correspondent  occasionally  dictates  the  script. 
He  is  apparently  anxious  to  insert  as  many  terms  of 
abuse  as  the  fee  will  allow  of. 

Great  as  is  the  crowd  in  the  bazaar,  and  mixed  as 
is  its  composition,  there  are  everywhere  good  order  and 
smiling  amiability.  On  occasion,  however,  a  sudden 
shriek  breaks  forth  in  the  genial  street,  followed  by  the 
sound  of  a  slap,  and  in  a  moment  the  loungers  in  the 
bazaar  are  drawn  into  a  heated  clump,  as  particles  of  iron 
are  clustered  round  a  magnet,  and,  behold,  in  the  centre 
of  a  dense  circle  of  eager  turbans  and  tarboushes  and  of 
wagging  tongues,  are  two  perspiring  men,  screaming  at 
one  another  and  snarling  like  hyenas.  I  imagine  that 
the  words  that  explode  into  the  air  are  about  the 
same  as  of  old  :  ‘  Woe  to  thee,  thou  vilest  of  men  ! 
thou  misbegotten  wretch  and  nursling  of  impurity  ! ' — 
the  terms  being  modified,  no  doubt,  and,  if  need  be, 
expanded  to  produce  the  full  corrosive  effect  of  modem 
invective. 

These  Eastern  people  are  still  as  they  always  have 
been,  very  extreme  in  their  methods  of  expressing 
emotion.  The  least  quarrel  between  lovers,  in  the '  Arabian 
Nights  ’  stories,  causes  the  man  to  at  once  fall  into  a  fit, 
and  the  lady,  as  being  the  finer  organism,  to  display  a 
series  of  highly  finished  convulsions  which  are  maintained 
with  spirit  for  days.  In  extreme  cases  the  distressed 
Juliet  may,  after  slapping  her  face,  'roll  about  on  the 
floor  like  a  serpent.'  Men  often  weep  until  they  become 


THE  CROWD 


253 


insensible,  or  until  ‘  the  world  looks  yellow/  A  damsel 
in  great  trouble  will  confide  to  a  friend  that  *  her  liver  is 
broken  in  pieces/  The  appropriate  ritual  to  be  observed 
on  hearing  of  the  death  of  a  relative  may  be  gathered 
from  the  following  formula  set  down  in  the  book  of  tales  : 

*  And  when  my  master  heard  my  words  the  light  became 
darkness  before  his  face,  he  was  paralysed  and  the 
strength  of  his  back  failed  him  and  he  rent  his  clothes  and 
plucked  his  beard  and  slapped  his  face  and  threw  his 
turban  from  his  head  and  ceased  not  to  slap  his  face 
until  the  blood  flowed  from  it/  With  this  somewhat 
heating  ceremony  appropriate  expressions  are  to  be 
employed,  while  it  is  also  essential  that  the  bereaved 
man  should,  as  soon  as  convenient,  repair  to  a  dry 
road  or  path  in  order  that  he  may  throw  dust  upon  his 
head. 

It  is  not  only  in  the  expression  of  wrath,  of  love¬ 
sickness,  or  of  sorrow  that  the  folk  of  the  East  are 
excessive.  Demonstrations  of  pure  affection  are  carried 
out  with  alarming  emphasis,  for  is  it  not  recorded  in 
the  stories  told  to  the  Happy  King  that  a  certain  damsel 
'  gave  El-Amjad  a  kiss  that  sounded  like  the  cracking  of 
a  walnut '  ? 

Besides  the  men  and  the  women  and  the  boys  and 
the  girls  are  the  animals  that  form  a  part  of  the  crowd 
in  the  bazaar — to  wit,  the  line  of  camels,  the  horses 
with  gay  trappings,  and  the  donkeys  that  are  laden  with 
many  things,  from  an  ancient  and  toothless  hag  who 
spurs  on  the  animal  with  her  bare  heels,  to  a  dead  sheep 
or  the  noxious  panniers  in  which  the  town  refuse  is 
conveyed  away  beyond  the  walls. 


254 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


As  notable  as  any  of  these  are  the  dogs — the  pariah 
dogs.  They  are  to  be  found  everywhere  in  the  town,  but 
mostly  in  the  open  streets — a  miserable  band  of  outcasts 
and  beggars.  The  pauper  dog,  the  abject,  cringing, 
homeless  loafer,  the  dog  not  only  without  a  master  but 
without  a  human  friend,  is  a  kind  unknown  in  England,  but 
here  he  wanders  in  his  hundreds.  Of  what  breed  these 
dogs  profess  to  be  I  cannot  say.  They  are  merely  dogs. 
Some  few  are  black,  but  the  majority  appear  to  have  been, 
in  happier  times,  brown,  and  to  have  been  changed  to  a 
jaundiced  yellow  partly  by  being  bleached  by  the  sun, 
partly  by  the  anaemia  of  misery,  and  partly  by  the  cover¬ 
ing  of  dirt  which  clots  their  coats.  They  all  seem  old  and 
hungry,  while  all  are  thin  and  very  tired.  A  few  of  them 
are  lame  or  are  covered  with  sores,  while  the  greater 
number  of  the  forlorn  pack  are  mangy  or  have  weak  eyes. 
They  are  pitiable  to  look  upon  not  only  on  account  of 
their  infirmities  but  because  they  are  so  very  unhappy. 
There  is  just  a  trace  of  the  look  of  a  dog  left  in  their 
eyes,  but  it  lacks  the  glow  of  comradeship,  of  confidence 
and  of  bonhomie  which  makes  lovable  the  countenance 
of  the  dog  who  lives  among  friends. 

One  episode  I  remember  that  no  one  would  wish  to 
see  again.  One  of  these  miserable  vagrants,  a  mere 
phantom  of  aching  bones,  is  watching  a  man  while  he 
eats  a  roll  of  bread.  The  dog  shivers  with  excitement 
and  expectancy,  his  mouth  waters,  he  is  so  hungry  that 
he  can  hardly  contain  himself,  his  bleared  eyes  become 
almost  dog-like  again,  there  is  coming  back  into  them  a 
memory  of  the  old,  world-long  friendship  between  the 
man  and  the  dog.  He  even  pricks  up  a  torn  ear,  holds 


THE  CROWD 


255 


his  head  on  one  side,  wags  a  bone  of  a  tail,  and  is  very 
nearly  a  generous-hearted,  man-adoring  dog  once  more, 
when  a  kick  in  the  face  from  a  heavy  shoe  sends  him 
staggering  into  the  gutter,  a  snarling,  mean,  malignant- 
minded  outcast. 


XXX 


ATTAR  OF  ROSES 

The  gardens  of  Damascus  are  full  of  roses  ;  the  damask 
rose  takes  its  name  from  the  city,  while  among  the 
strange  and  ancient  things  still  manufactured  in  the 
town  is  attar  of  roses.  As  my  wife  and  I  wished  to 
purchase  some  of  this  perfume,  we  were  taken  by  the 
dragoman  to  a  certain  merchant  who  was  to  be  found  in 
a  fragrant  corner  of  the  bazaar.  His  shop  was  full  of 
pleasant  things,  things  agreeable  to  smell,  to  eat,  and  to 
look  upon.  The  merchant  was  a  handsome,  staid,  and 
venerable  man  who  conducted  his  business  with  great 
solemnity  and  made  of  a  common  transaction  a  pictur¬ 
esque  ceremonial.  He  had  piercing  black  eyes  and  a 
grey  beard  trimmed  with  the  utmost  nicety.  He  was 
tall  and  very  thin.  On  his  head  was  a  turban  of  white 
and  gold  cloth  folded  around  a  crimson  skull-cap.  He 
wore  a  mouse-grey  waistcoat  of  abnormal  length,  the 
same  being  edged  with  innumerable  buttons.  Over  the 
vest  was  a  long,  mouse-grey,  academic  robe  lined  with 
brown  fur.  He  was  so  dignified  and  courtly  a  man  that 
to  buy  of  him  seemed  to  be  little  less  than  purchasing 

256 


ATTAR  OF  ROSES  257 

a  cake  of  soap  from  the  chancellor  of  a  university  arrayed 
in  his  full  robes  of  office. 

The  merchant  sent  for  two  stools  and  motioned  us 
to  sit  down  in  the  roadway  before  the  shop.  This  we 
did  with  as  much  awe  as  if  we  were  about  to  take  part 
in  some  occult  rites.  He  then  handed  each  of  us  a  lump 
of  sweetmeat,  as  if  to  keep  us  quiet,  and  in  a  moment  we 
felt  that  we  were  about  ten  years  old.  From  a  gap  in 
the  wall  he  drew  out  an  ancient  box  which  he  opened 
with  a  curious  key.  If  a  smoke  had  come  out  when  the 
lid  was  raised,  and  had  turned  into  a  genie,  I  should 
hardly  have  been  surprised.  In  the  box  was  something 
wrapped  up  in  silk.  He  proceeded  to  unwind  it  with 
precision,  and  in  time  revealed  a  glass  bottle  full  of  what 
appeared  to  be  tallow. 

The  day  was  cold  and  the  dragoman  explained  that 
attar  of  roses  became  solid  at  a  low  temperature.  The 
dragoman  was  our  connecting  link  with  the  outer  world, 
and  from  him  I  had  ascertained  (in  a  whisper  such  as 
would  be  proper  to  a  question  asked  in  church)  that  the 
attar  was  sold  by  the  drop,  and  that  the  price  of  each 
minim  was  equal  to  about  three-half  pence.  I  could 
no  more  have  dared  to  discuss  halfpence  with  this  grave 
Arabian  than  to  have  asked  an  archbishop  in  his  vest¬ 
ments  for  a  penny  stamp.  I  whispered  that  I  wished 
to  have  a  hundred  drops. 

The  merchant  now  produced  a  candle,  and  beckoned 
to  him  a  boy  who  appeared  to  emerge  from  the  earth 
like  a  familiar  spirit.  Without  a  word  the  boy  took 
the  candle  over  to  a  charcoal  fire  burning  in  a  shop  on 
the  other  side  of  the  way,  and  brought  it  back  lighted. 


258  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


The  old  man  then  proceeded  to  warm  the  bottle  over  the 
candle  in  order  to  melt  the  contents.  It  was  an  inter¬ 
esting  process.  The  candle  was  not  visible  to  us  as  we 
sat — the  shop  was  dark,  being  almost  like  a  cave  in  a  cliff, 
so  that  the  fine,  sharply  cut  features  of  the  old  man  were 
illumined  as  if  from  some  crucible  fire.  His  face  and 
the  delicate  feminine  hand  that  held  the  bottle  stood  out 
against  the  gloom  with  a  supernatural  glow.  He  became 
at  once  an  Eastern  alchemist.  Strange  reflections  were 
thrown  upon  the  wall,  the  shadow  of  the  turban  took  the 
form  of  a  giant  head,  wondrous  things  appeared  on  the 
shelves  that  I  had  not  noticed  before,  while  curious 
flashes  of  light  played  over  the  bottle  as  he  rotated  it  in 
his  hand.  The  bottle  might  have  held  the  Elixir  of  Life. 

The  silence  of  the  old  man  and  his  intense  watching 
of  the  vial  became  almost  oppressive.  At  last  the  attar 
was  melted,  and  then,  standing  erect  in  the  faint  light 
of  the  recess,  he  proceeded  to  drop  one  hundred  drops 
into  a  tiny  bottle  that  he  produced — as  he  produced  aU 
things — from  one  of  the  invisible  cupboards  with  which 
he  was  surrounded.  This  was  also  a  solemn  process, 
for,  as  each  drop  fell,  he  counted  the  number  in  Arabic, 
‘  wahid,  tnein,  tlateh,  arbaa,  khamseh,  sitteh,  saba.' 
He  rolled  out  the  words  as  if  they  were  the  words  of  an 
incantation,  and  it  was  with  some  sense  of  relief  that  the 
last  utterance  was  reached — ‘  miyeh,'  one  hundred. 

The  business  part  of  the  ceremony  was  completed 
by  the  dragoman,  who  dealt  coarsely  with  francs  and 
even  with  centimes.  For  my  own  part  I  felt  that  this 
cabalistic  seance  could  only  be  appropriately  concluded 
in  the  coinage  of  the  '  Arabian  Nights  ’ — namely  in  golden 


ATTAR  OF  ROSES  259 

deenars  or  in  handfuls  of  dirhems.  As  we  made  other 
purchases  the  impassive  dragoman  demanded  a  bill — 
a  bill  from  an  alchemist !  I  herewith  append  the  docu¬ 
ment,  which  was  written  upon  blue  paper  and  dried 
with  sand.  I  am  sometimes  doubtful  if  it  is  really  a 
bill  and  if  it  is  not  more  probably  the  formula  for  the 
Elixir  of  Life. 


1 


r 


XXXI 

THE  GREAT  MOSQUE 

There  is  only  one  accredited  or  standard  '  sight  ’  in 
Damascus,  and  that,  as  Mark  Twain  would  observe, 
'  is  easily  avoided/  It  is  the  Great  Mosque  of  the 
Omeiyades.  It  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  town,  upon 
the  site  of  that  house  of  Rimmon  which  was  the  place  of 
worship  for  all  people  in  the  days  of  Naaman  the  Syrian. 
Here  also  was  erected — so  tradition  avers — the  altar 
which  filled  King  Ahaz  with  amazement  when  he  came 
to  Damascus  to  meet  Tiglath-pileser,  king  of  Assyria. 
The  altar  was  so  wonderful  in  its  pattern  and  its  work¬ 
manship  that  Ahaz  had  a  drawing  made  of  it,  and  from 
the  detailed  plan  a  replica  was  produced  by  Urijah  the 
priest.  This  beautiful  house  of  Rimmon  fell  into  ruin  and 
was  replaced  by  a  Roman  temple  dedicated  to  Jupiter. 
Some  remains  of  the  Temple  of  Jupiter  can  stiU  be  seen 
in  the  form  of  fragments  of  massive  walls  that  look  as 
old  as  the  rocks  upon  the  hillside.  More  than  that,  there 
is  a  portion  of  the  west  wall  of  the  present  mosque  which 
is  attributed  '  with  a  tolerable  amount  of  certainty '  to 
the  house  that  King  Ahaz  visited. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  fifth  century  the  Roman 

260 


THE  GREAT  MOSQUE 


261 


temple  was  replaced  by  a  Christian  cathedral,  which 
church  300  years  later  (a.d.  705-715)  was  converted  into 
a  mosque  of  exceptional  magnificence.  Unfortunately 
this  splendid  structure  was  destroyed  by  fire  in  1069, 
was  again  burned  down  in  1400,  and  was  finally  laid 
waste  by  a  third  destructive  fire  as  lately  as  1893.  In  the 
last  conflagration  two  treasured  articles  vanished  in  the 
smoke,  to  wit,  a  book  and  a  human  skull.  The  book 
was  one  of  the  four  original  copies  of  the  Koran,  the 
skuU  was  the  fleshless  head  of  no  less  a  person  than  John 
the  Baptist.  With  the  sacred  bones  disappeared  also 
the  exquisite  shrine  in  which  they  had  been  preserved. 

It  will  be  gathered,  therefore,  that  the  present 
mosque  is  modern.  A  few  relics  of  the  old  glory  remain 
in  the  form  of  beautiful  gates  with  bronze-plated  doors, 
an  ancient  fountain  dating  from  a.d.  1020,  and  some 
traces  of  the  superb  decoration  which  made  the  venerable 
house  illustrious.  Possibly  the  most  fascinating  features 
in  the  building  now  are  the  three  minarets,  which  are 
fine  specimens  of  oriental  architecture,  and  which,  in 
elegance  or  daintiness,  could  hardly  be  surpassed. 

One  would  be  prepared  to  find  that  the  janitor  or 
seneschal  of  so  august  a  building  as  the  Great  Mosque  of 
the  Omeiyades  in  Damascus  would  be  an  imposing  and 
stately  person,  clad  with  all  the  insignia  of  authority. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  he  is  a  meek  and  shrunken  man  who 
receives  the  visitor  in  bed,  for  the  unfortunate  ofiicial  is 
bedridden.  We  found  him  lying,  just  inside  the  Great 
Gate,  on  a  low,  wooden  bedstead  which  might  have  been 
as  old  as  the  original  mosque.  In  the  matter  of  bed¬ 
clothes  the  invalid  was  buried  beneath  a  heap  of  blue  rags. 


262 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


over  which  were  laid  two  or  three  canvas  sacks  such 
as  are  met  with  in  granaries.  Finally,  in  the  place  of  the 
quilt  or  ‘  eiderdown  '  of  modern  times  was  a  piece  of 
Indian  matting  apparently  lifted  from  the  adjacent  floor. 
No  well-trained  nurse,  with  an  orderly  mind,  could 
have  approved  this  method  of  bed-making,  nor  of  the 
general  arrangements  of  the  sick  room.  The  head  of  the 
invalid  was  wrapped  up  in  that  kind  of  blue  cloth  the 
butchers  use,  so  that  it  looked  like  a  piece  of  meat ; 
while  over  this  blue  wrapping  was  a  great  brown  cowl. 
The  porter  had  evidently  been  warned  by  his  medical 
advisers  to  avoid  a  chill,  for  there  is  no  doubt  that  the 
main  entry  of  a  mosque  in  the  winter  is  draughty.  On 
entering  the  gate  we  assumed  a  sympathetic,  bedside 
manner,  but  it  was  unnecessary,  for  the  alertness  with 
which  the  sick  official  gathered  in  the  miscellaneous 
coins  we  handed  him  could  not  have  been  exceeded  by 
a  Monte  Carlo  croupier.  The  money,  together  with  a 
banana  ^  which  he  was  eating,  he  put  under  the  bed¬ 
clothes.  Being  infidels  and  heretics  we  were  compelled 
to  place  felt  slippers  over  our  boots  before  we  could 
enter  the  shrine.  These  slippers  the  invalid  insisted 
upon  applying  himself,  while  to  help  him  in  this  service 
we  placed  our  muddy  feet,  one  after  the  other,  in  his 
bed  in  obedience  to  his  direction. 

The  present  mosque,  being  not  yet  twenty  years  old, 
has  little  that  is  admirable  about  it  except  its  great  size. 
The  immense  white  court,  with  its  colonnade,  its  fountain 
pond,  and  its  many-coloured  crowd  of  idlers  and  wor¬ 
shippers,  is  very  picturesque.  The  mosque  itself  is  on 
the  lines  of  a  basilica,  with  nave  and  aisles  and  rows  of 


THE  GREAT  MOSQUE 


263 


pillars  crowned  with  Corinthian  capitals.  The  building 
is  bare  and  unfurnished-looking.  It  haunts  the  memory 
by  reason  of  the  numerous  lamps  and  chandeliers  of 
fulminating  vulgarity  which  hang  unabashed  from  the 
ceiling.  The  modern  decoration  is  nerveless  and  tawdry, 
while  some  of  the  windows  are  filled  with  coloured  glass 
which  would  outrage  the  conservatory  of  the  paltriest 
suburban  villa. 

There  are  some  unusual  features  in  the  precincts  of 
the  mosque,  notably  a  curiously  dirty  house  in  a  court¬ 
yard  of  trodden  earth.  The  house  is  a  house  of  much 
mystery.  It  hangs  over  a  pond,  being  supported  in  that 
attitude  by  two  very  ancient  and  beautiful  pillars  which 
must  have  belonged  to  the  original  mosque.  It  conveys 
the  impression  of  a  lame  and  unclean  beggar  leaning  upon 
two  crutches  of  delicately  carved  sandal-wood. 

Near  to  the  house  of  mystery  is  a  pretty  garden  full 
of  roses,  with  a  fountain  in  it,  and  a  pergola  which  can  be 
no  other  than  a  joy  of  the  earth  in  the  month  of  June. 
In  the  garden  is  a  little  building,  very  quaint  and  friendly¬ 
looking.  It  has  the  aspect  of  a  summer-house,  being  a 
retreat  of  consummate  peace.  In  reality  it  is  a  sepulchre, 
for  it  contains  the  tomb  of  the  terrible  Saladin,  that  hard 
man  of  arms  who  was  the  hero  of  the  Second  Crusade. 
The  tomb  is  of  white  marble,  carved  in  panels  and 
decorated  with  a  border  of  primitive  design  in  black 
and  gold.  It  is  covered  by  an  exquisite  shawl,  while 
above  it  hangs  a  Damascene  lamp  of  perfect  workman¬ 
ship.  Some  glorious  blue  tiles  line  the  walls  of  the 
chamber,  and  in  the  windows  is  ancient  coloured  glass 
very  delicate  in  tint.  There  is  nothing  in  the  little  room 


264  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 

to  suggest  the  fearsome  warrior.  Indeed  the  quietness 
of  the  place,  the  childlike  garden,  the  roses,  the  splashing 
fountain,  and  the  hovering  pigeons  would  make  one  think 
that  beneath  the  marble  lay  the  body  of  the  lady  who, 
for  a  thousand  and  one  nights,  prattled  her  fancies  to  the 
Happy  King. 

Scarcely  less  interesting  than  the  mosque  of  Damascus 
is  the  great  Khan,  the  principal  inn  or  caravanserai  of 
the  city.  Here  are  stored  the  strange  things  that  are 
brought  to  Damascus  from  indefinite  parts  of  the  world. 
Here  the  camel  caravans,  that  have  crept  across  the 
desert  from  Bagdad  and  from  lands  of  the  East  still 
more  remote,  unload  and  rest.  Here  is  the  journey's 
end. 

The  Khan  takes  the  form  of  an  immense,  cathedral¬ 
like  building,  very  lofty,  very  solemn  and,  at  the  moment, 
very  still.  The  roof  is  made  up  of  a  series  of  domes 
which  are  supported  by  enormous  square  pillars  Both 
the  pillars  and  the  walls  are  built  of  black  and  yeUow- 
grey  stones  disposed  in  alternating  horizontal  lines  of 
considerable  boldness.  Around  the  base  of  each  dome 
is  set  a  circle  of  arched  windows,  filled  with  innumerable 
discs  of  yellowish  glass.  It  is  through  these  windows, 
as  through  the  clerestory  in  a  church,  that  the  rays  of 
the  sun  stream  into  the  colossal  building.  This  method 
of  lighting  has  a  magical  effect,  due  to  the  dead  black 
shadows  on  the  one  hand,  and,  on  the  other,  to  the 
gleams  of  gold  which  shoot  across  the  mist  like  a  fllghi 
of  arrows. 

In  the  centre  of  the  court  is  a  vast  stone  basin  of 
water.  Here  the  camels  drink,  here  the  travel-stained 


THE  GREAT  MOSQUE 


265 


men  wash  their  faces  and  their  feet,  and  here  the  mer¬ 
chants  dip  up  water  for  the  making  of  coffee.  High  up 
in  the  walls  of  the  building  are  galleries  with  pointed 
arches  and  stone  balustrades,  while  at  many  a  point 
and  many  a  level  will  be  barred  windows  that  open  into 
cavernous  storerooms.  The  whole  of  the  floor  is  occu¬ 
pied  with  bales  of  goods,  with  sacks  full  of  coffee,  and 
bags  full  of  dates,  with  sugar  bags,  with  barrels  of  olive 
oil,  with  bundles  of  crackling  hides,  and  with  a  medley 
of  uncouth  packages,  the  contents  of  which  are  hard  to 
tell.  Here  and  there  are  gigantic  scales  of  primitive 
pattern.  They  are  large  enough  to  weigh  an  ox,  and  are 
of  a  type  that  has  remained  unaltered  since  the  days 
when  things  were  first  '  weighed  in  the  balance.'  Round 
the  wide  entry  half-naked  porters — the  descendants  of 
the  memlooks  of  ancient  days — are  shifting  sacks  and 
bales  ;  in  quiet  corners  turbaned  men  in  long  robes  sit 
smoking  or  drinking  coffee,  while  in  sleepy  tones  they 
discuss  the  state  of  the  market. 

Across  the  gateway  of  the  Khan  there  hangs,  in  a 
formidable  festoon,  a  heavy  iron  chain.  Its  height 
above  the  ground  is  such  that  it  will  just  allow  the  man 
of  average  stature  to  come  in,  but  it  prevents  the  entrance 
of  the  laden  camel  or  of  the  man  with  a  burden  on  his 
shoulders. 

There  is  some  romance  about  the  beginning  of  things  : 
there  is  even  a  deeper  sentiment  about  their  ending. 
Here  at  this  gateway  is  a  place  where  things  end.  Here 
is  the  goal  of  the  caravan,  the  end  of  the  journey.  Day 
after  day,  for  weary  weeks,  the  one  object  clear  in  the 
eyes  of  every  tired  man  on  the  march  is  the  gateway  of 


266 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


the  Khan  at  Damascus  and  within  it  the  shadow  of  great 
peace.  No  place  can  provide  a  more  picturesque  concep¬ 
tion  of  the  journey's  end  or  more  graphically  symbolise 
the  close  of  the  travail  of  human  life.  The  long-pondered 
gateway  is  at  last  in  sight,  the  chain  is  lifted,  while  under 
the  archway  stalks  the  leading  camel  and  the  footsore 
man  who,  for  many  a  long  mile,  has  tramped  at  the  head 
of  the  caravan.  The  little  white-walled  town  out  of 
which  they  filed  at  sunrise  a  month  or  two  ago  is  almost 
forgotten.  Much  softened,  too,  is  the  memory  of  the 
sullen  march  from  every  dawn  to  every  twilight.  Less 
harsh  is  the  thought  of  the  blazing  sun,  of  the  aching 
limbs,  of  the  many  alarms. 

Here  at  last  is  the  end — water  and  shade,  safety  and 
a  couch  for  dreamless  sleep,  with  thanks  to  Allah  that  the 
work  is  done. 


XXXII 


A  TRAGIC  JOURNEY 

If  our  arrival  at  Damascus  was  attended  with  too  little 
circumstance,  our  departure  from  that  place  was  attended 
with  too  much.  Apparently  in  other  and  holier  days 
there  have  been  difficulties  in  the  way  of  leaving  the 
city.  St.  Paul,  it  may  be  remembered,  departed  from 
Damascus  in  a  basket  which  was  lowered  from  the 
top  of  the  city  wall  into  the  ditch.  We  should  have 
preferred  this  method  of  leaving  the  town  to  that  which 
we  came  to  experience. 

It  was  our  intention  to  proceed  from  Damascus  to 
Beyrout  and  then  take  a  steamer  to  Port  Said.  Un¬ 
fortunately  the  Beyrout-Damascus  railway  had  long 
been  blocked  with  snow  and  was  still  buried  beneath 
accumulating  drifts.  Determined  inquiries  as  to  when 
the  line  would  be  clear  led  to  no  more  precise  information 
than  that  it  would  be  open  ‘  soon.'  '  Might  it  be  clear 
by  to-morrow?  '  'We  hope  so.'  'Might  it  be  blocked 
for  another  fortnight  ?  '  '  Oh,  assuredly.'  As  Damascus 

is  a  comfortable  place  to  stay  at,  as  the  interest  of  the 

city  is  inexhaustible,  and  as  the  bulk  of  our  luggage  was 

267 


268 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


at  Beyrout,  we  resolved  to  tarry  in  Damascus  until  such 
time  as  the  snow  had  melted. 

At  this  juncture  another  difficulty  arose.  Great  num¬ 
bers  of  pilgrims  from  Mecca  were  pouring  into  the  city 
day  by  day.  Most  of  these  were  proceeding  northwards 
to  Beyrout,  but  were  detained  for  the  same  reason  that 
detained  us.  Damascus,  large  as  it  is,  was  becoming 
inconveniently  full,  and  then  among  the  beleaguered 
pilgrims  cholera  broke  out.  Whether  the  cholera  would 
vanish  ‘  soon,'  like  the  snow,  or  whether  it  would  stay 
and  spread  so  that  the  place  would  be  darkened  by  the 
shadow  of  death,  none  could  tell.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
the  cases  proved  to  be  very  few,  the  epidemic  to  be 
limited  and  indeed  trivial.  Before,  however,  that  happy 
fact  became  known  in  the  bazaars  it  was  pointed  out  to 
me,  in  a  way  I  was  imable  to  ignore,  that  if  the  cholera 
did  spread  it  was  just  possible  that  the  city  might  be 
placed  in  quarantine,  when  none  could  leave  it  except 
by  the  road  to  the  burial-ground.  I  was  therefore 
advised  to  return  by  train  to  Haifa  while  yet  there  was 
time,  and,  after  collecting  the  stray  baggage,  to  embark 
at  that  place  for  Port  Said. 

Now  the  distance  from  Damascus  to  Haifa  by  rail 
is  only  176  miles.  The  line  is  down  hill  for  a  great  part 
of  the  way,  while  the  Hauran  and  the  Jordan  valley,  both 
of  which  are  traversed,  are  level  plains.  Yet  in  spite 
of  this  the  journey  occupies  a  whole  day,  ‘  from  morn  to 
noon,  from  noon  to  dewy  eve.'  There  was  a  good  deal  of 
oriental  vagueness  about  the  train.  It  was  said  to  leave 
Damascus  at  sunrise,  but  I  gathered  that  the  actual 
astronomical  moment  was  determined  not  by  the  sun 


A  TRAGIC  JOURNEY 


269 


but  by  the  station-master.  If  that  official  had  had  a  bad 
night  the  sunrise  might  be  seriously  delayed.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  had  awakened  early  and  was  in  high 
spirits  he  might  declare  that  the  sun  was  up,  while  the 
night  was  still  at  its  blackest,  and  incontinently  start 
the  train  on  its  way  to  the  coast.  To  catch  a  train  of  this 
illusive  character  requires  some  forethought,  so,  in  order 
to  meet  all  contingencies  which  might  arise  from  the 
state  of  the  station-master's  mind,  it  was  arranged  that 
we  should  be  called  at  3  a.m.  The  process  of  awakening 
having  been  carried  out  with  the  noise  of  a  bombardment, 
we  had  a  meal  termed  breakfast  at  the  exceptional  hour 
of  3.30  A.M.  and  left  the  hotel,  chilled  and  confused,  at 
four  in  the  morning. 

It  was  a  fine  starry  night,  but  very  cold.  The  drive 
through  the  city  was  full  of  interest,  for  a  sleeping  town  is 
always  curious.  Save  for  a  few  prowling  dogs  the  streets 
were  empty.  Every  house  was  barricaded.  I  can 
imagine  that  the  streets,  with  their  overhanging  upper 
stories,  looked  as  the  streets  of  Old  London  must  have 
appeared  at  night  at  the  time  of  the  Great  Plague.  Here 
and  there  a  light  shone  in  an  upper  window,  where  one 
might  suppose  that  it  lit  a  sick-room  and  a  plague-stricken 
man  tossing  on  the  bed.  Here  and  there  we  passed  a 
watchman  carrying  a  lantern.  He  moved  listlessly  as 
would  a  man  in  a  town  where  there  were  but  few  living 
people  left  to  watch.  On  the  roadway,  in  front  of  certain 
of  the  shops,  a  porter,  wrapped  up  in  rags,  was  lying. 
He  might  have  died  of  the  plague  and  have  been  deposited 
in  the  lane  by  his  friends.  More  horrible-looking  was  a 
watchman  sound  asleep  in  a  chair,  in  front  of  a  house, 


270 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


for  he  was  so  limp  and  so  askew  that  he  seemed  to  have 
been  sitting  dead  in  his  chair  for  hours.  Another  man 
asleep  on  a  pile  of  corn  sacks,  with  his  arms  outstretched, 
his  mouth  open,  and  his  head  rolled  to  one  side,  looked 
the  picture  of  death.  There  were  lights  in  courtyards, 
suggesting  that  the  household  was  in  distress  and  that 
the  servants  were  sitting  up  watching.  Two  lean  men 
were  warming  their  hands  over  a  fire  in  a  blind  alley. 
If  this  were  in  reality  plague-smitten  London  I  should 
take  them  to  be  the  men  who  at  dawn  would  perambulate 
the  streets  to  remove  dead  bodies  in  a  cart. 

We  were  at  last  clear  of  the  town  and  out  into  the 
vacant  night,  when  a  man  suddenly  emerged  from  the 
gloom  and,  with  yells  and  waving  of  arms,  motioned  us 
to  stop.  We  did,  and  were  immediately  enveloped  in  a 
perfect  cyclone  of  shrill  speech.  He  was  too  fluent  for  a 
highway  robber,  but  it  was  not  until  the  gust  of  words 
had  subsided  that  it  became  known  that  he  was  a  philan¬ 
thropist.  It  appeared  that,  owing  to  the  rains,  a  culvert 
beneath  the  road  had  given  way,  leaving  a  ditch  into 
which  a  cab  horse  had  fallen  during  the  night  and  had 
broken  its  leg.  It  was  to  save  us  from  the  ditch — upon 
the  brink  of  which  we  were  already  standing — that  the 
man  of  words  had  kindly  interposed. 

Some  way  farther  along  the  blank  road  we  came  to  a 
stockade  of  posts,  where  we  stopped  and,  as  instructed, 
got  out.  This  we  were  told  was  the  station,  although 
so  far  as  anything  visible  was  concerned  we  might  as  well 
have  been  in  the  centre  of  the  Sahara.  Apparently  there 
is  something  occult,  or  even  sacred,  about  a  railway 
station  in  Syria,  for  neither  carriages  nor  other  mean 


A  TRAGIC  JOURNEY 


271 


things  on  wheels  are  allowed  to  come  within  a  certain 
respectful  distance  of  the  presence.  We  stumbled  after 
the  dragoman  across  some  very  uneven  ground  in  the 
direction  of  a  solitary  light.  This  light,  poor  as  it  was, 
revealed  the  corner  of  a  small,  low,  stone  building  pre¬ 
cisely  like  a  miner's  cottage  in  Cornwall.  The  building 
was  the  station.  The  light  came  from  a  lantern  placed 
on  the  ground  in  front  of  a  sleeping  man  who  was  sur¬ 
rounded  by  a  bank  or  entrenchment  of  bread.  Probably 
no  conception  of  the  railway  terminus  of  the  capital  of  a 
country  could  be  more  remarkable  than  this.  In  place 
of  the  usual  immense  fabric  and  the  vast  dome  of  glass 
and  iron  was  a  miner's  cottage,  with  a  lantern  on  the 
ground  by  the  side  of  a  sleeping  man  surrounded  by 
bread. 

The  time  was  now  4.50  a.m.  Further  investigation 
showed  an  empty  train  standing  derelict  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  stone  cottage.  Between  the  latter  and  the 
train  was  a  slope  of  very  bumpy  ground  such  as  is  met 
with  around  houses  in  course  of  erection,  and  this  we 
concluded  would  be  the  platform.  It  was  occupied  by  a 
number  of  large  bundles  which  proved  to  be  men  wrapped 
up  in  blankets  and  asleep.  Similar  bundles  were  propped 
up,  in  an  unsteady  row,  against  the  wall  of  what  we  now 
knew  to  be  the  Central  Station  of  Damascus.  These 
sleeping  men  were  pilgrims  from  Mecca.  They  were 
on  their  way  to  the  coast,  as  we  were,  but  they  were 
taking  no  risks  as  to  catching  the  train.  They  knew 
something  of  oriental  railways  and  their  habits,  and  by 
sleeping  on  the  platform  between  the  booking-office 
and  the  actual  carriages  they  evidently  felt  that  the 


272 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


train  could  scarcely  creep  away  without  their  knowledge. 
The  men  who  were  asleep  on  the  ground  about  the 
miner’s  cottage  were  by  no  means  all  the  intending 
travellers  by  '  the  early  train.’  Close  to  the  building 
were  a  number  of  tents  fuU  of  silent  human  beings  whose 
feet  projected  here  and  there  from  beneath  the  canvas. 
There  had  been  a  camp  fire  in  the  centre  of  the  bivouac, 
but  it  had  evidently  long  died  out.  It  was  apparent  now 
that  the  man  with  the  lantern  and  the  bank  of  bread 
represented  the  refreshment-room.  The  buffet  was  not 
yet  open,  for  the  baker  was  still  wrapt  in  his  dreams. 

Our  coming  was  an  event  of  moment,  for  we  awoke 
the  slumbering  station.  But  for  us  the  passengers,  the 
station-master,  the  ticket  clerk,  and  the  porters  might 
possibly  have  slept  until  noon.  We  woke  the  first 
series  of  men  accidentally  by  falling  over  them  and  by 
treading  on  their  bodies.  They  arose  in  panic,  dreaming 
no  doubt  that  the  train  had  gone,  and  proceeded  to  rouse 
their  friends  and  to  aimlessly  drag  their  luggage  about. 
In  a  few  minutes  we  witnessed  what  was  no  less  than  a 
resurrection  scene.  We  found  the  terminus  in  a  state  of 
silence  and  the  ground  occupied  apparently  by  dead 
men.  Almost  immediately  these  bodies  rose  from  the 
earth,  took  up  their  beds,  and  walked.  In  a  while  out  of 
the  camp  of  tents  poured  several  scores  of  pilgrims  to 
join  the  shuffling  crowd.  All  of  them  seemed  confused, 
as  would  be  a  like  body  of  men  on  the  resurrection 
morning. 

It  was  the  train  now  that  afforded  a  surprise.  It 
consisted  of  three  closed  vans — labelled,  as  we  perceived 
later  on,  for  eight  horses  or  forty  men — a  third-class 


A  TRAGIC  JOURNEY 


273 


corridor  carriage,  and  a  like  carriage  with  first-class 
compartments.  The  carriages  were  in  darkness  and 
apparently  sealed  up.  But  pilgrims  began  to  beat  on 
the  doors  of  the  goods  wagons  with  their  hands,  when, 
to  my  amazement,  they  opened  and  out  of  each  poured 
no  fewer  than  forty  sleep-muddled  Moslems.  These 
devout  men  were  in  fact  making  exceedingly  sure  of  the 
train  by  sleeping  in  it.  Some  of  those  who  were  released 
from  what  must  have  been  a  chamber  of  asphyxiation 
began  forthwith  to  clamour  at  the  doors  of  the  third- 
class  carriage,  when,  behold,  that  structure  in  turn  pro¬ 
ceeded  to  give  up  its  dead,  for  out  of  its  doors  stumbled 
or  fell  more  than  enough  men  to  fill  it,  I  should  imagine, 
twice  over.  The  man-producing  powers  of  the  place 
appeared  to  be  now  exhausted,  for  the  crowd  already 
amounted — as  was  afterwards  made  clear — to  over  150 
souls.  But  this  was  not  all,  as  was  proved  when  an 
excited  man  attacked  the  first-class  carriage  which  had, 
up  to  this  moment,  exhibited  no  sign  of  life.  He  beat 
violently  upon  the  walls  and  doors  of  the  same,  screaming 
the  while  ‘  Aboo-Shihab,  Aboo-Shihab.'  The  man  who 
made  this  onslaught  upon  the  irresponsive  carriage  was 
apparently  connected  with  the  railway.  He  not  only 
screamed  and  kicked  the  doors  with  his  feet  but  he 
thumped  the  windows  with  his  fist.  For  a  long  time  there 
was  no  response  to  this  vast  outburst  of  noise  ;  but  finally 
a  sleepy  man,  whom  I  supposed  to  be  Aboo-Shihab, 
opened  the  door  (which  he  had  locked  from  the  inside)  and 
stepped  to  the  ground  like  one  in  a  trance.  He  was 
followed  by  many  others,  all  of  whom  were  evidently 
railway  men  who,  not  wishing  to  miss  the  starting  of 


274 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


the  train  or  to  be  late  to  their  work,  had  wisely  slept 
on  the  field  of  their  labours. 

Up  to  this  moment  the  stone  cottage  had  exhibited 
no  evidence  of  human  occupation.  It  still  remained 
silent  and  dark  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  dragoman 
had  been  hammering  upon  the  door  with  an  umbrella 
for  some  time.  Possibly  the  inhabitants  of  the  building 
would  have  remained  lost  to  the  world  for  the  rest  of  the 
day  had  it  not  been  for  the  actively  minded  man  who 
had  awakened  Aboo-Shihab.  This  enthusiast,  at  5.15 
A.M.,  seized  a  bell  and  rang  it  like  a  demented  person 
for  a  considerable  period.  The  effect  produced  was 
marvellous.  The  pilgrims  began  to  cry  aloud  and  to  rush 
to  and  fro  like  people  in  a  burning  house.  As  each  man 
dragged  his  belongings  with  him  the  platform  became 
a  place  of  danger.  There  was  evidently  a  belief  that 
the  train  was  starting  at  once,  although  there  was  no 
engine  attached  to  it,  nor  was  there  even  a  sign  of  one ; 
so  they  began  to  climb  into  the  third-class  carriage  and 
the  vans  as  if  they  had  but  few  seconds  to  spare.  The 
bellringing,  however,  had  an  effect  upon  the  little  stone 
house,  for  in  a  while  a  light  appeared,  and  later  on 
bolts  were  withdrawn  and  the  door  opened.  I  was 
anxious  to  have  a  peep  at  the  station-master,  the  man 
upon  whose  word  the  rising  of  the  sun  depended,  but  he 
was  as  difficult  to  discover  among  the  buzzing  crowd  as 
a  queen  bee  in  a  swarm.  Consequently  I  never  saw 
him — a  circumstance  I  shall  always  regret. 

After  a  while  the  pilgrims  became  calmer  again  ; 
they  even  strolled  about,  chatted  with  one  another, 
bought  bread  of  the  baker,  and  generally  behaved  as 


A  TRAGIC  JOURNEY 


275 


people  of  leisure  to  whom  railway  travelling  is  rather  a 
bore.  At  5.30  A.M.,  however,  the  awakener  of  Aboo- 
Shihab  seized  the  beU  again  and  rang  it  for  his  very  life. 
The  effect  was  again  astounding.  The  loitering  pilgrims 
were  once  more  electrified.  They  once  more  made  a 
rush  for  the  carriage  doors  as  people  rush  to  the  exits 
of  a  burning  theatre  ;  they  blocked  the  doors,  they 
trampled  upon  one  another,  they  fought  to  get  in,  while 
those  who  found  any  attempt  at  entry  impossible 
flitted  to  and  fro  on  the  platform  as  folk  deprived  of 
reason. 

Near  about  6  a.m.  the  bell  was  rung  for  the  third 
time,  but  the  pilgrims  had  not  yet  recovered  from  the 
last  shock,  so  beyond  a  general  shudder  it  produced  no 
visible  effect.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  platform  was 
deserted,  every  man  was  already  in  his  place,  the  engine 
had  been  coupled  on,  the  baker  had  sold  aU  his  bread, 
had  blown  out  his  lamp,  and  could  be  seen  wending  his 
way  towards  the  city.  The  dawn  was  appearing.  It 
would  seem  as  if  the  ringing  of  the  bell  had  awakened 
even  the  sun.  The  light  feU  upon  one  of  the  most 
forlorn -looking  railway  stations  I  had  ever  seen,  upon 
the  deserted  camp,  upon  the  ashes  of  the  fire,  and  upon 
a  wide  drift  of  litter  that  was  indescribable.  As  soon 
as  the  bell  had  ceased,  the  train,  without  further  cere¬ 
mony,  glided  out  into  the  mist,  and  we  knew  that  the 
sun  was  at  last  at  hberty  to  rise. 

It  is  desirable  to  note — in  connection  with  what 
happened  later  on — that  next  to  the  engine  came  the 
three  closed  goods  vans,  each  containing  about  fifty 
pilgrims,  and  that  it  was  followed  by  the  third-class 


276  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


corridor  carriage  which  held  no  fewer  than  forty  more 
devotees  from  Mecca.  At  the  end  of  the  train  was  the 
first-class  carriage  in  which  we  and  our  dragoman  were 
the  sole  passengers.  The  pilgrims  were  Russian  Moslems, 
men  of  a  marked  Mongolian  type  of  face,  who  were  clad 
in  heavy  coats,  one  coat  being  worn  over  the  other,  while 
the  outer  garment  was  peeled  off,  on  occasion,  to  make 
a  praying  carpet.  They  carried  with  them  a  good  deal 
of  untidy  baggage,  varying  from  battered  German 
trunks  and  sailors'  sea  bags  to  bundles  in  blankets. 
With  the  same  were  associated  such  odd  articles  of 
luggage  as  lamps,  jugs,  and  cooking  pots,  with,  above 
all,  the  inevitable  samovar  which  they  clung  to  as  if 
it  had  been  a  sacred  image. 

As  has  already  been  said  (p.  200)  the  descent  from  the 
tableland  to  the  plain  is  by  a  mountain  railway  of  con¬ 
siderable  length  and  of  no  mean  degree  of  steepness. 
We  came  to  about  the  worst  part  of  the  incline  at  2.30  in 
the  afternoon.  The  line  at  this  point  follows  a  rocky 
defile.  The  road,  which  is  very  narrow,  is  represented 
by  a  ledge  cut  on  the  side  of  an  almost  vertical  cliff. 
Above  the  line  is  the  precipitous  face  of  the  hill,  while 
below,  at  the  foot  of  the  great  waU  of  rock,  is  the  river, 
converted  into  a  torrent  by  the  recent  rains.  At  this 
somewhat  hair-raising  spot  the  engine  was  proceeding 
very  slowly,  when  we  suddenly  felt  a  shock  which  I 
imagined  was  due  to  the  carriage  being  struck  by  a 
falling  rock.  There  followed  immediately  a  second  blow 
like  to  the  first,  and  then  I  became  aware  of  the  fact 
that  the  train  was  off  the  line.  Before  I  fully  realised 
that  there  was  very  little  margin  for  a  manoeuvre  of  this 


A  TRAGIC  JOURNEY 


277 


kind  we  came  to  a  sudden  stop.  I  jumped  out  and 
made  my  way  to  the  front  of  the  train.  On  arriving 
there  I  was  astounded  to  see  that  both  the  engine  and 
the  tender  were  missing,  and,  looking  down  over  the  cliff, 
I  saw  both  these  vehicles  in  the  river.  Apart  from  the 
roar  of  the  stream  everything  was  so  quiet  that  these 
essential  parts  of  the  train  might  have  been  lying  in 
the  water  for  weeks.  The  engine  was  upside  down  and 
was  almost  entirely  submerged  in  the  muddy  water,  the 
wheels  alone  being  visible  above  the  flood.  The  tender 
was  the  right  way  up,  but  the  water  reached  to  the  level 
of  the  floor,  while  it  was  empty  of  every  particle  of  coal. 
The  drop  from  the  line  to  the  river  bed  was  about  forty 
to  fiftv  feet. 

We  were  relieved  to  see  two  men — the  driver  and  the 
stoker — crawling  out  of  the  river.  Their  escape  from 
immediate  death  was  due  to  the  fact  that  the  engine, 
in  turning  over  in  its  fall,  had  thrown  them  on  to  a  slope 
of  stones,  on  to  just  such  an  incline  as  forms  the  talus  at 
the  foot  of  a  mountain.  The  officials  on  the  train  im¬ 
mediately  went  to  the  assistance  of  their  comrades. 
The  approach  to  the  water's  edge  was  difficult,  and  still 
more  difficult  was  the  conveying  of  the  injured  men  up 
an  adjacent  slope.  The  stoker,  who  was  a  Turk,  was 
suffering  a  good  deal  from  shock,  was  badly  cut  about  the 
head  and  face  and  much  bruised  elsewhere.  The  engine- 
driver,  a  Bulgarian,  was  unhappily  in  a  worse  plight, 
for,  in  addition  to  superficial  injuries,  it  was  evident  that 
one  of  the  abdominal  organs  had  been  ruptured.  Both 
of  the  men  were  placed  lying  down  in  the  compartment 
next  to  ours.  They  were  in  great  pain,  but  fortunately 


278  THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


I  had  with  me  a  medicine  case  and  a  flask  of  whisky. 
After  two  doses  of  morphia  they  each  expressed  them¬ 
selves  as  much  better.  The  stoker  began  to  regain  his 
pulse,  but  the  poor  engine-driver,  although  free  from 
pain,  showed  no  amendment,  and  it  was  evident  that, 
as  no  operation  was  possible  in  this  wild  ravine,  his 
case  was  hopeless. 

As  to  the  cause  of  the  accident  no  light  was  forth¬ 
coming,  but  it  was  quite  clear  that  the  carriages  had 
not  been  struck  by  any  falling  rock  as  I  had  supposed. 
The  first  of  the  three  goods  vans  fuU  of  pilgrims  was 
wholly  derailed,  the  front  wheels  being  within  eighteen 
inches  of  the  edge  of  the  precipice.  Had  not  the  coup¬ 
lings  broken  the  disaster  would  have  been  terrible  to 
contemplate.  The  front  part  or  bogie  of  the  second  van 
had  left  the  rails,  but  the  hind  wheels  still  held  to  the 
metals  and  so  saved  the  whole  train,  after  the  couplings 
had  given,  from  running  headlong  over  the  cliff,  for  the 
incline  of  the  road  was  considerable.  The  third  van 
and  the  two  carriages  were  not  derailed. 

The  pilgrims  turned  out  of  the  train  in  a  languid 
and  lethargic  mass  and  crawled  vaguely  about  the  line. 
They  contemplated  the  engine  in  the  river  with  an  air 
of  weariness.  They  were  so  little  disturbed  from  their 
tortoise-like  calm  that  one  might  have  supposed  that  an 
episode  of  this  kind  was  a  common  occurrence.  The 
journey  from  Mecca  had  been  to  them  a  succession  of 
wonders,  and  this  was  but  one  of  many  strange  things. 
If  a  railway  bell  had  been  rung  they  would  have  been 
thrilled  and  alarmed,  but  the  dropping  of  an  engine 
with  two  men  into  a  river  was  not  a  matter  for  emotion. 


A  TRAGIC  JOURNEY  279 

Their  first  care  was  to  set  the  samovar  going  and  then  to 
glide  down  to  the  river  to  wash. 

I  may  say  that  during  all  this  time  it  was  raining  hard. 
It  had  rained  steadily  since  daylight,  and  further,  I  may 
add  that  it  rained  with  equal  perseverance  all  night. 
In  due  course,  namely  at  5  p.m.,  a  relief  train  came  up 
from  the  direction  of  Haifa.  It  consisted  of  trucks 
enough  to  take  the  pilgrims  and  of  a  guard's  van.  The 
process  of  transferring  the  baggage  was  very  slow,  owing 
to  the  narrowness  of  the  way.  On  the  river  side  the 
train  was  within  eighteen  inches  of  the  edge,  so  that  it 
was  dangerous  to  pass  on  that  part  of  the  road  with  heavy 
trunks ;  while  on  what  may  be  termed  the  land  side  was 
a  deep,  stone-lined  trench  between  the  line  of  rails  and 
the  cliff.  There  was  a  choice,  therefore,  between  falling 
into  the  river  on  the  one  side,  or  into  the  stone  crevasse 
on  the  other.  A  special  difficulty  arose  in  connection 
with  the  transfer  of  the  injured  men.  The  stoker  could 
be  helped  along  between  two  of  his  comrades,  but  the 
driver  was  unable  to  stand.  It  so  happened  that  on  the 
train  was  a  solitary  Bedouin  who  possessed  a  very  strong 
and  ample  cloak.  I  proposed  that  the  driver  should  be 
placed  in  the  cloak  and  carried  between  two  men  along 
the  narrow  way  as  if  he  were  on  a  stretcher.  It  was 
explained  to  me,  however,  that  he  was  a  Moslem  and 
that  he  could  not  be  carried  lying  down  because  it  would 
be  ‘  unlucky '  and  a  portent  of  death.  He  must  be 
carried,  his  co-religionists  decided,  upon  a  man's  back. 
I  protested  earnestly  against  this  inhuman  procedure. 
I  appealed  to  the  patient  as  weU  as  to  his  friends,  but  all 
was  in  vain ;  so  I  witnessed  the  horrible  spectacle  of  a 


28o 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


heavy  man  with  a  ruptured  intestine  being  carried  along 
a  very  shaky  road  on  another  man’s  back,  while  he  was 
held  precariously  in  place  by  a  third.  I  made  the  poor 
fellow  as  comfortable  as  I  could  on  the  floor  of  the  guard’s 
van,  on  a  bed  of  coats  and  cloaks,  and  was  gratified  to 
find  that  he  slept  a  little  before  we  came  to  the  journey’s 
end.  He  was  a  man  of  admirable  fortitude  and  courage, 
who  never  uttered  a  sound  of  complaint,  and  was  only 
distressed  by  the  fear  that  he  was  giving  trouble. 

We  left  the  scene  of  the  accident  at  5.30  p.m.  As 
there  was  no  available  carriage  on  the  train  my  wife  and 
I  rode  in  the  guard’s  van,  sitting  on  bags  on  the  floor. 
It  was  a  very  dreary  journey,  for  we  were  destined  not 
to  reach  Haifa  until  2  a.m.  on  the  following  morning. 
The  hours  seemed  to  be  interminable.  I  never  looked 
at  my  watch  without  being  convinced  that  it  had  stopped. 
The  night  was  not  only  dark  but  very  cold,  while  the 
pattering  of  rain  on  the  roof  of  the  van  made  for  melan¬ 
choly.  To  increase  the  dreariness  of  the  situation  there 
was  no  light  in  the  van  until  a  candle  was  obtained  from 
the  pilgrims.  It  was  stuck  in  a  bottle  and  placed  on  the 
floor.  It  gave  a  sorry  illumination  to  a  sorry  scene — 
a  bare  van  with  people  sitting  or  lying  on  the  floor  in 
company  with  a  dying  man  and  another  who  was 
grievously  injured.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  we 
should  have  been  better  without  the  candle,  for  there 
is  a  negative  relief  in  absolute  darkness. 

When  we  were  two  or  three  hours  distant  from  Haifa 
a  passenger  carriage  was  attached  to  the  train  in  which 
we  completed  the  journey.  It  was  at  this  point  that 
we  met  certain  prominent  officials  of  the  line  who  were  on 


A  TRAGIC  JOURNEY 


281 


their  way  to  the  scene  of  the  disaster.  There  were 
some  six  of  them — all,  I  believe,  Turks.  They  very 
courteously  came  to  see  me  in  the  guard's  van,  and 
civilities  and  cards  were  exchanged  through  the  medium 
of  the  dragoman.  I  was  wishing  that  I  could  speak 
direct  to  these  gentlemen,  when  one  of  them  came 
towards  me,  and,  holding  out  his  hand,  observed  with 
fervour,  ‘  Oh,  what  a  baUy  country ! '  It  was  a  somewhat 
unusual  introductory  remark,  but,  assuming  that  the  ad¬ 
jective  employed  had  a  condemnatory  meaning,  it  was 
not  entirely  out  of  place,  for  the  night  was  dark  and  cold, 
it  was  pouring  with  rain,  we  were  without  food  or  the 
possibility  of  obtaining  any.  I  was,  however,  so  delighted 
to  meet  a  person  who  spoke  English  that  I  grasped  this 
gentleman  very  warmly  by  the  hand  and  told  him  how 
pleased  I  was  to  meet  some  one  I  could  talk  to.  To  this 
he  replied,  ‘  Oh,  what  a  baUy  country ! '  I  agreed  with 
his  views  as  to  the  immediate  country,  but,  wishing  to 
change  the  subject,  said,  '  This  has  been  a  most  unfortu¬ 
nate  accident.'  To  which  he  answered,  '  Oh,  what  a  bally 
country ! '  I  then  tried  simpler  sentences,  such  as  '  Good 
evening,'  ‘  Are  you  not  wet  ?  '  but  on  each  occasion  he 
replied  with  the  criticism,  '  Oh,  what  a  bally  country  !  ' 
I  then  found  that,  with  the  exception  of  this  curious 
sentence,  he  did  not  know  a  single  word  or  syllable  of 
English.  I  am  convinced  that  he  had  not  the  faintest 
idea  of  the  meaning  of  his  speech.  I  imagine  that  he 
had  been  at  one  time  associated  with  an  English  railway 
engineer  who  had  given  vent  to  this  expression  so  fre¬ 
quently  that  this  courteous,  well-intending  Turk  had 
learnt  it  like  a  parrot.  As  he  stepped  out  of  the  guard's 


282 


THE  LAND  THAT  IS  DESOLATE 


van  into  the  rain  I  said,  ‘  I  am  afraid  you  will  have 
a  very  trying  journey,'  to  which  he  answered,  with 
a  smile  and  a  polite  bow,  '  Oh,  what  a  bally  country ! ' 
Thus  we  parted  without  further  exchange  of  ideas. 

We  reached  Haifa  at  2  a.m.  and  got  to  bed  at  3  a.m., 
having  been  '  up '  exactly  twenty-four  hours.  The 
engine-driver  was  removed  to  the  excellent  and  admirably 
equipped  German  hospital  in  the  town.  I  went  to  see 
him  early  next  morning.  He  was  conscious,  but  quite 
free  from  pain,  and  was  rapidly  nearing  the  end.  His 
wife  was  with  him.  He  smiled,  as  an  old  friend  would 
smile,  when  we  shook  hands,  for  there  was  this  bond 
between  us — that  I  had  been  with  him  on  the  train.  He 
nodded  as  I  went  out  of  the  room.  It  was  to  show  that 
he  knew  that  he  was  really  saying  good-bye.  He  died 
a  little  while  after  I  left  the  ward. 

On  the  day  following  this  gloomy  episode  we  were 
relieved  to  see  the  Austrian  Lloyd  steamer  come  into 
Haifa  and  to  hear  that  our  luggage  was  on  board.  The 
steamer  was  due  to  start  for  Jaffa  and  Port  Said  at  about 
five  in  the  evening.  All  seemed  well,  but  it  was  not  all  well. 
There  were  other  troubles  ahead.  It  was  evident  that  a 
storm  from  the  south  was  brewing,  and  as  experience  of 
the  landing  at  Haifa  was  fresh  in  our  minds  we  resolved 
to  get  on  board  the  boat  before  the  sea  gathered  strength. 
So  we  embarked  in  the  morning,  while  the  weather  was  as 
yet  moderate,  and  stepped  on  to  the  deck  of  the  steamer 
with  considerable  satisfaction.  Unfortunately  the  storm 
increased  every  hour  until  it  attained  alarming  pro¬ 
portions.  It  will  be  noteworthy  as  the  most  severe  gale 
that  struck  the  Syrian  coast  during  the  winter  of  1911. 


A  TRAGIC  JOURNEY 


283 


Several  ships  were  driven  ashore,  while  the  havoc  made 
of  the  beach  houses  at  Port  Said  was  deplorable  to  see. 

Mount  Carmel  offered  a  certain  amount  of  shelter 
to  the  ship,  and  in  an  ordinary  gale  the  anchorage  would 
have  been  secure,  but  this  was  not  an  ordinary  gale.  We 
were  hanging  on  to  two  anchors,  and  were  doing  well  until 
about  7.30  in  the  evening,  when  one  of  the  steel  hawsers 
snapped,  leaving  us  with  one  anchor  only  and  the  wide 
beach  of  Acre  under  our  lee  as  a  place  to  be  wrecked  on. 
The  boat  was  well  found  and  the  captain  an  exceptionally 
able  officer.  He  did  the  only  thing  that  was  possible.  He 
hauled  up  the  remaining  anchor  and  steamed  out  into 
the  open  sea.  We  then  had  definite  experience  of  the 
process  known  and  flippantly  talked  about  as  '  steaming 
in  the  teeth  of  a  gale.'  Without  going  into  any  detail  it 
would  be  fitting  to  describe  the  night  as  a  fearful  night 
during  which  no  one  could  have  slept  for  a  moment. 

On  the  following  morning  I  ventured  out  on  deck 
to  look  upon  one  of  the  most  desolate  scenes  in  the 
world — a  grey  sea  in  a  gale.  The  force  of  the  wind 
was  still  extreme.  ‘  The  world  was  nothing  but  an 
immensity  of  great  foaming  waves  rushing  at  us,  under  a 
sky  low  enough  to  touch  with  the  hand,  and  dirty  like 
a  smoked  ceiling.  In  the  stormy  space  surrounding  us 
there  was  as  much  flying  spray  as  air.'  1  Here  in  this 
lamentable  scene  was  to  be  read  ‘  The  burden  of  the 
desert  of  the  sea.' 

It  was  eleven  in  the  morning  when  I  came  on  deck. 
It  was  then  possible  to  make  out  in  the  wild  haze  a  point 
of  land  just  abreast  of  us.  I  asked  a  sailor  what  land  it 

^  Youth,  by  Joseph  Conrad.  (New  York. 


284  the  land  that  IS  DESOLATE 


was.  To  my  horror  he  replied  '  Haifa.'  So,  after  steaming 
ahead  for  fifteen  hours,  we  had  done  no  more  than  just 
keep  abreast  of  the  place  we  had  started  from.  At  seven 
in  the  evening  the  wind  abated,  and  at  noon  the  next  day 
we  entered,  with  much  relief,  the  harbour  of  Port  Said. 

It  was  not  until  we  were  actually  ashore  at  Port 
Said  that  we  felt  safe — safe  from  the  possibility  of  being 
asked  to  visit  another  sacred  site. 


Nortli  Latitudi 


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Scale  of  Mil' 


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INDEX 


Abana,  River,  210,  218 
Absalom,  tomb  of,  iii 
Acre,  18,  167 
Ain-es-shems,  30 
Akir,  27 

Andromeda,  legend  of,  14 
Annunciation,  Church  of  the,  182 
‘  Arabian  Nights,’  222,  228,  237, 
240,  241,  247,  253 
Ashdod,  28 
Athlit,  157 
Attar  of  Roses,  256 

Bashan,  Land  of,  202 
Beggars,  57 
Belus,  River,  168 
Bethany,  87,  130 
Bethesda,  108 
Bethlehem,  117 
Bethsaida,  193 
Bethshemesh,  30 
Bittir,  34 

Boaz,  country  of,  127 

C^SAREA,  1 56  , 

Calvary,  68,  70,  63 
Cana,  189 

Capernaum,  192,  193 
Carmel,  159,  165 
Chapel  of  St.  Helena,  81 
Chorazin,  193 

Church  of  the  Annunciation,  182 
Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  66, 

74, 81 

Church  of  the  Nativity,  120 
Country  of  Palestine,  128 

285 


Damascus,  208 

and  the  ‘  Arabian  Nights,’  222, 
228,  237,  240,  241,  247,  253 
antiquity  of,  208,  221 
arrival  at,  205 
bazaars  of,  231,  256 
dogs  of,  254 
El  Meidan,  207 
Great  Khan  of,  264 
Great  Mosque  of,  260 
hospital  at,  227 
’houses  of,  224 
people  of,  243 
position  of,  208 
railway,  268 
rivers  of,  210,  218 
road  to,  198 
St.  Paul  at,  226 
streets  of,  216,  221 
view  of,  213 
David’s  Well,  118 
Dead  Sea,  146,  149 
Deborah  and  Barak,  174 
Delilah  and  Samson,  30,  32 
Desolation  of  Palestine,  128 
Dome  of  the  Rock,  90 
Dorcas,  House  of,  16 

Easter  at  Jerusalem,  77 
Ekron,  28 

Elisha’s  Spring,  139 
Endor,  179 


Flowers  in  Palestine,  22 


286 


INDEX 


Galilee,  Sea  of,  191,  192 
Garden  of  Gethsemane,  102,  105 
Gath,  28 
Gaza,  15,  32 
Gethsemane,  102,  105 
Golden  Gate,  100,  103 
Golgotha,  68,  70,  83 
Gordon’s  Calvary,  68 

Haifa,  155,  282 

departure  from,  282 
landing  at,  160 
Harosheth,  173 
Hauran,  the,  202 
Hermon,  Mount,  153,  205 
Holy  Sepulchre,  66,  74,  81 
Horns  of  Hattin,  191 

Jaffa,  4 

environs  of,  21 
landing  at,  7 
siege  of,  17 
Simon’s  house  at,  12 
Tabitha’s  house  at,  16 
Jericho,  130 

siege  of,  142 
walls  of,  139 
Jerusalem,  beggars  in,  57 

Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
66,  74,  81 
Easter  at,  77 
first  view  of,  38 
Gethsemane,  102,  105 
Jaffa  Gate,  39 
Jews  of,  51 

Jews’  Wailing-place,  113 
Mount  of  Olives,  85,  103 
plan  of,  43 
pools  of,  108 
road  to,  15,  21,  34 
streets  of,  47 
tombs  of,  no 
Via  Dolorosa,  53 
Jews  of  Jerusalem,  51 
Jews’  Wailing- place,  113 
Jezreel,  175 
Jonah  at  Jaffa,  10 
birthplace  of,  188 


Joppa — see  Jaffa 
Jordan,  the  River,  146,  199 

Kishon,  the  River,  168,  173 

Ladder  of  Tyre,  170 
Lake  of  Gennesaret,  19 1,  192 
Lazarus,  tomb  of,  13 1 
Leaf  Fountain,  98 
Lydda,  26 

Magdala,  194 
Mary’s  Well,  185 
Maundeville,  Sir  John,  i,  14,  168 
Moab,  Mountains  of,  142,  15 1 
Mosque  El-Aksa,  99 
of  Omar,  90 
of  the  Omeiyades,  260 
Mount  Carmel,  159,  165 
Hermon,  153,  205 
Moriah,  43,  90 
Nebo,  142 

of  the  Beatitudes,  190 
of  Olives,  85,  103 
Tabor,  177 

Naboth’s  Vineyard,  175 
Nain,  178 

Nativity,  Church  of  the,  xao 
Nazareth,  179 

road  to,  172,  187 
Nebo,  Mount,  142 

Olives,  Mount  of,  85,  103 
Opliel,  43 

Palestine,  desolation  of,  128 
flowers  of,  22 
tourists  in,  23 
Philistines,  25 
Pisgah,  142 

Plain  of  Sharon,  21,  23,  26 
Pool  of  Bethesda,  108 
of  Siloam,  109 
Port  Said,  2,  284 

Rachel’s  Tomb,  118 
Railway  accident,  276 


INDEX 


287 


Ramleh,  27 

Rimmon,  house  of,  260 
Ruth,  country  of,  127^ 

St.  George,  Monastery  of,  136 
tomb  of,  26 
Saladin,  tomb  of,  263 
Samson,  30,  32 
Sea  of  Galilee,  19 1,  192 
Semakh,  200 

Sharon,  Plain  of,  21,  23,  26 
Shunem,  176 
Sidon,  170 
Siloam,  109 
Simon,  house  of,  12 
Solomon’s  stables,  100 
Temple,  93 
Sorek,  Valley  of,  30 
Stone  of  Unction,  74 
Sulem,  176 


Tabitha,  house  of,  16 
Tabor,  Mount,  177 
Temple  of  Solomon,  93 
Tiberias,  195 
road  to,  187 
Tomb  of  Absalom,  in 
David,  no 
Lazarus,  13 1 
Rachel,  118 
Saladin,  263 
the  Kings,  no 
Tyre,  170 


Valley  of  Dry  Bones,  35 
Sorek,  30 
Via  Dolorosa,  53 


Wailing-place,  113 


THE  END 


Printed  in  Great  Britain  at  The  Ballantyne  Press 
Spottiswoodk,  Ballantyne  &  Co.  Ltd. 
Colchester,  London  &  Eton 


Date  Due 


■ - ! 

f) 

1^  *  * 
Sv 

y 


